


Yours Is The Skin Of The Mysterious

by Mephistopheles (LittleRedCosette)



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedCosette/pseuds/Mephistopheles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Blaine just wanted to be loved...by his mom, by his brother, by his baseball coach. Ten years later, he's still not found love. Men, yes; love, no. It's not until he meets Kurt Hummel one cold New York night that he discovers some men will love him for more than just one night, and some men won't just love him for his cheap prices. Mysterious Skin-inspired.</p><p>*Abandoned*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disappear

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Warning: This is centred around themes of underage sex and prostitution, depression, child abuse (sexual/physical/emotional), substance abuse, crude language, assault and rape.
> 
> AU. It is inspired by and based on the Gregg Araki film "Mysterious Skin", starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt. HOWEVER, Neil, Brian and all other characters of the film will not be present (as I know of so far), and it will not be a direct translation of the film's plot.
> 
> Contains Klainebows and Klangst in heaps. Reference to Rachel/Brody and other pairings. So, who can spot Blaine in the prologue?

 

Yours Is the Skin of the Mysterious

_"I thought of all the grief and sadness and fucked up suffering in the world, and it made me want to escape. I wished with all my heart that we could just leave this world behind. Rise like two angels in the night and magically disappear."_

_~ Neil, Mysterious Skin_

**Prologue**

Kurt had been so sure not even the bright lights of New York City itself could change his mind and morals about clubbing. And it hasn't, really. He'd still choose curled up, softly lit romance over sweat and strobes and grinding on a packed dance floor.

But life in New York really isn't life as a nineteen year old without fake IDs and speedy student hangover cures and late night stumbles home.

He bashes his shoulder into the doorway on his way out, and a hand from behind him grabs the back of his shirt to keep him (near enough) upright.

"Woah there, Tiger," Brody chuckles, slapping Kurt between the shoulder blades.

"Kurt!" Rachel shrieks, as if fearing Kurt will fall straight through the pavement in he's not careful. She's wrapped around her boyfriend like a spider monkey, clinging and pulling at him to keep him from disappearing right between her fingers. "Whoops," she giggles.

Kurt totters, drunk and ungainly, over to the nearest lamppost to lean on.

He's breathless with delight. He no longer cares about the paper deadline for Isabelle due in four days, the homesickness that's been troubling him for the past few weeks, the guilt he feels at getting along with Brody so well even as he consoles his heartbroken brother on the phone. Nothing can dampen this high of tequila sunrises and martinis galore.

"Come home with me," Rachel mumbles into Brody's ear, although in her slurred intoxication she may as well have invited the entire population of New York City back to her bed.

Kurt grimaces at the attempted seduction. Rachel's pawing at Brody's shirt and licking at his arm and Kurt sort-of-kind-of wants to vomit.

As Brody leans in to murmur something slightly more discrete in his girlfriend's ear, Kurt casts his gaze up and down the street.

A group of giggling women are teetering on stilettos, eyeing Rachel with envious glares as her boyfriend wraps a protective arm around her against the two a.m. chill. Two men are watching the oblivious group, eyes wide as one of the blondes bends down to pick up a fallen cell phone and the hem of her mini-skirt rises up to the very top of her thigh.

Before Kurt can so much as roll his eyes at such obvious signs of lust, a rowdy group of men crow and hoot as they race one another out of the club. They're eager and excited, laughing and jeering as they narrowly avoid running right into Rachel and Brody as they snuffle their noses into each others necks.

One of the men, tall with dark blond hair and soft blue eyes, pauses in front of Kurt, sparing moment enough to glance the younger man up and down. He smiles a charming, if a little inebriated smile. He mouths a friendly _Hey_ , which Kurt returns with a shy wave and blushes.

It would seem not even alcohol can change Kurt's blushing virgin nature.

Not even losing his virginity has removed his blushing virgin nature, apparently.

And for that split second of time stopping connection there's all the potential in the world.

But it passes. The tall man with his dark blond hair and soft blue eyes turns back to his friends, and together they are distracted by something at the end of the street.

Kurt's eyes hopelessly follow them, nothing better to look at – certainly not Mr and Mrs Broadway themselves.

And then he sees him, his features shadowed in the casting of lamppost light.

He's small, with curly hair and broad shoulders, dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and an undersized wife beater. He's small, smoking a lit cigarette that glows in the dark. He's small, surrounded by tall men with their grabby hands and dilated pupils.

He's _small_.

Kurt watches as together the tall blond and his equally tall brunet friend take turns running their hands through the boy's hair, down his chest, cupping his ass and squeezing his crotch.

Kurt watches as the boy takes a lazy drag of his cigarette, licks his lips and responds with well rehearsed ease to their advances.

Kurt watches him slip their dollars into his back pocket and drag them around the corner, out of sight.

" _Kurt_!"

Suddenly there's Rachel, tugging at his elbow with one hand as the other keeps a tight clutch on Brody's fingers, _insisting_ they get home _now now now_ , _insisting_ it's to get plenty of sleep for Miss July's lesson in the morning and not out of desperate teenage wantonness.

Brody laughs and shrugs, and Kurt nods, slipping only a little as he finally lets go of the lamppost. He glances back at the group of men still hanging around, their laughter echoing up to the stars. The boy and the two men have disappeared and Kurt, stomach clenching at thoughts beyond swilling alcohol and hangovers, turns away.

New York, New York, he tells himself. The same as any other city in the world, really, with secrets of its own left mostly hidden by that glaring red light.

And as his head sinks into his pillow, Kurt imagines the hungry moans of two men, and the pained cries of a curly haired boy between them.


	2. Appetite

 

Yours Is the Skin of the Mysterious

_"Recommended at the price, insatiable in appetite, wanna try?"_

_~ Killer Queen, Queen_

**Chapter One**

Kurt is distracted in the morning by a pounding head and a fuzzy tongue. He sips an energy drink, cringing and apologising to his skin with every swallow, and refuses the slice of toast that Brody offers to make him with a grimace at the thought of digesting solid food, knowing it probably wouldn't look very pretty in reverse a few hours later.

He keeps his thoughts on a single track of _work work work_ until the run up to midday, waiting patiently outside Isabelle's office, when he allows five spare minutes to berate himself for allowing his friends to convince him going out on a Monday night would be a good idea. Never again, he tells himself.

Just like he did last week.

It's not until he's on his way home again, walking the last block that he thinks about the events of the previous night. It's not until he's rounding that final corner that he recalls three figures rushing, lust crazed around a New York street corner, out of sight.

The three men. The two men and the _boy._

He rejects the thought before it can fully form in his (still aching) head. He returns his attention to what he's going to make for dinner tonight, knowing Rachel will be late, as she is every Tuesday, leaving him to dine alone.

Alone with his thoughts.

.

.

When they leave the club on Saturday night it takes Kurt a moment to realise what he's looking for.

He blushes when the thought occurs to him, because why oh _why_ would Kurt E. Hummel be looking for someone like that? One of _…those_ people.

He's glad nobody's noticed his red cheeks.

He clears his throat awkwardly, runs a hand over the back of his neck as it prickles uncomfortably and looks around.

He's completely alone.

"Guys?" he asks tentatively into the night, receiving only odd stares from the strangers stood around him. So, not _completely_ alone.

But Kurt Hummel's never been one to count strangers as company.

He looks up and down the street, wondering whether they've rushed, or perhaps just haven't even _left_ yet. He eyes the club entrance, where the bouncers are glaring at him suspiciously. The taller one on the left had been reluctant to let him in a few hours ago in the first place, and Kurt hums gawkily and turns away.

"Rachel?" he tries, knowing full well his best friend is far out of earshot, whether she's in the club or on her way home.

It's colder tonight than it was on Monday. He shivers and rubs his arms, covered only by a black silky shirt, and stamps his booted feet, scowling as they pinch his toes.

He considers waiting, even texts Rachel a couple of dubiously coherent messages demanding to know where she is, but the cold is settling under his skin, tinting his fingertips an elegant shade of purple.

After a third stranger approaches, subtly asking him if he's got anything to _sell,_ Kurt turns on his heel and stalks down the street. He wants nothing more than a duvet, a clean pair of pyjamas and a mug of boiling hot water infused with lemon juice.

He's too busy muttering profanities that will hopefully send Rachel a quick visit to Hades to notice his surroundings. It's not until his solitude is interrupted with a soft _'Hey'_ that he freezes, muscles tensing. His head jerks around and right there, leaning against the wall of a brick building is a man.

No, a _boy._

That same boy of short stature, his black jeans wrapped tightly around slim hips and a dark washout wife beater stretched across the youthfully soft muscles of broad shoulders. His rumpled black hair curls around the heart shape of his face, and Kurt takes in sharp cheekbones and a well defined jaw.

And those eyes, deep hazel wells of innocence that stare at Kurt as his teeth, so straight they're almost crooked, bite down softly on his plump lower lip.

"H-Hey," Kurt squeaks, and immediately reprimands himself inside his own head for replying. Because now there's some unwritten obligation between them, he's sure of it.

"You look cold," the boy observes with a nod to Kurt's trembling frame, and it would be a perfectly innocuous comment if not for the way his eyes linger briefly on Kurt's crotch before peeking back up at his face through a thick frame of dark eyelashes.

"Hmph," is all Kurt can manage.

The boy dares to take a step closer. He's not holding a cigarette this time, and he unfolds his arms to let them hang loosely by his side. Kurt tries his best not to acknowledge the flex of young muscles.

"Some company would keep you warm," the boy continues softly, and Kurt thinks this stranger's voice might be warm and lovely, if it wasn't so gravelled with forceful seduction.

"I…I'm ok, th-thanks," Kurt stammers, backing away as the boy advances with carefully balanced footsteps. Kurt's trembling reaches a peak when his back hits a bus shelter.

He wonders briefly how this underdressed boy isn't positively shivering, with his bare arms and ratty converse.

"You don't sound so sure," the boy teases with a sly smile.

Kurt shakes his head until he's backed as far as he can go and the stranger steps well within his personal space, until they're sharing hot breaths in the cold night air.

"Please, I-"

"I'll blow you for twenty."

Kurt chokes on their shared breath, coughs and flinches when a pair of hands rest high on his hips.

"Is your cock as pretty as your face?" the boy muses aloud, raking his wide eyes down Kurt's body.

For a moment time stands still. _They_ stand still.

But then this stranger, this _boy_ is rubbing Kurt's hips with his thumbs, sliding his hands across to Kurt's zipper and bending his knees in a slow, sensuous descent to a crouch.

As the stranger's kneecaps touch the floor and the button of Kurt's pants pops open, Kurt comes to his senses, falls free of the boy's captivating trance.

 _"No!"_ Kurt cries, wrenching himself aside and scrabbling at his pants. The boy yelps gracelessly as he topples over, and for some reason he cowers at the sight of Kurt stood at full height above him.

Kurt opens his mouth to yell a firm _Back Off_ , but it silenced when he sees the boy raise a hand over his face, as if expecting to be punished. Kurt's shout catches in his throat and he lets out a wordless sigh.

"Hey," he hums, reaching down towards the boy.

But upon seeing no further threat of attack, the boy's fear has seemingly vanished. His cocky grin returns and he raises his hands to meet Kurt's, pulling him down to the ground.

"Got a place we can go for some privacy, sweetcheeks?" he asks huskily, and Kurt wrenches himself back, though he doesn't pick himself up off the ground yet. The slight damp of the pavement soaks into his jeans and he wonders if, once the last of the alcohol has left his system, he'll be utterly furious at himself, or just plain old angry.

"No. Stop." Kurt tries to keep his voice authoritative, but it's laced with concern.

At the solid rejection the boy recoils, and his wide lustful eyes flash with doe soft hurt.

"No," Kurt cries again when the boy makes to scramble away, two pink spots appearing flushed in his tan cheeks with embarrassment. He reaches to grab the boy's hand and hold him there.

The boy stares at their locked fingers curiously.

"What's your name?" Kurt asks shakily, and it's as if Kurt's asked him to solve world hunger, the way this nameless stranger, this dime a dozen prostitute, stares at him, bemused. "What's your name?" Kurt repeats.

The boy licks his lower lip, still as plump as before but trembling gently now.

"Blaine," he whispers, voice free of sultry charm.

Kurt realises he was right, his voice is warm and lovely. Blaine's voice is warm and lovely.

"Blaine," Kurt nods. "I'm Kurt."

Blaine doesn't seem to know what to do with this information, so he turns his eyes away, looks at the wall beside them instead, at the floor and at the bus shelter. Anywhere but Kurt.

The damp and the cold are spreading through Kurt, and he releases Blaine's hand as if a shock of electricity has forced them apart. He rushes to his feet and sways, still tipsy.

Blaine stays on the floor, resigned and shivering. He looks up at Kurt from his knees, but there's nothing seductive about it this time. Blaine is nothing but a small, powerless boy. He looks to be about the same age as Kurt, but his eyes, his eyes are wide and deep as a child's, fearfully vulnerable.

"Here," Kurt announces abruptly, extracting a ten dollar bill from his pocket and pressing it into Blaine's palm, which has stayed open where Kurt left it. The boy's fingers curl around it slowly, as if testing his own strength.

"But I-"

"Please, just take it," Kurt begs. His throat aches with an urge to cry at Blaine's confusion, and suddenly it's imperative that Kurt leaves now. "I have to go. Just…go eat something. Please."

With a mother and father, and a stepmother too, like he has grown up with, it's no wonder Kurt's developed the instinctive _Parent Gene_.

And before Blaine can ask another question too painful to be heard, Kurt turns away and runs with all the force his burning leg muscles can manage, tears spilling down his cheeks even as they seem to freeze in contact with the chilly night air.

He bows his head, can't bear the thought of seeing Blaine still sitting there watching him from the cold, lonely ground. When he reaches the end of the street he turns back.

The pavement is shining with old rainwater, and the night is growing ever darker. Blaine has disappeared from sight.


	3. Somebody

 

Yours Is the Skin of the Mysterious

_On every street in every city, there's a nobody who dreams of being a somebody._

_~ Taxi Driver_

**Chapter Two**

 

The clock on the wall reads four thirty a.m. as Blaine face-plants his ratty sheeted mattress. It's broken, like almost everything else in his apartment, so really it could be any time. But it reads four thirty, and that will have to do.

He turns his head to take a shuddering breath, rippling his back muscles to loosen the knots that have been forming all night. Cold sweat is clinging to his skin and his eyelids can barely find the energy to open with every blink. He licks his chapped lips and runs a clammy hand over a tender patch on the crown of his head, where fingers had gripped just a little too hard.

Blaine frowns into his pillow as he delves into his back pocket, pulling out a fist of dollar bills and sleepily separating them into ones, fives, tens, twenties, and even a single precious fifty. He can't quite bear to face counting it yet. He stuffs them deep into the shoe box under his bed with a sightless hand and rolls over, gasping in exhaustion.

He frowns as he notices another note peaking out from his front pocket. Blaine _always_ puts his cash in his back pocket.

Lethargic fingers pluck out the ten dollar bill and he fiddles with it idly, wondering for a moment before it comes to him.

A flash of pale skin and kind, shiny eyes, and a gentle, high pitched Please, go eat something, or some other warm sentiment. The boy, _Kurt?_ Blaine hasn't seen him since that night, almost a week ago. The boy who refused a blowjob for the very reasonably price of twenty dollars but was willing to hand over ten for nothing.

That had made _no_ sense.

Blaine smiles at the crumpled note, and after a moment's deliberation he folds it neatly back into his front pocket. It doesn't seem right to lump Kurt's cash alongside a trick's payment.

He smiles wearily up at his ceiling, closes his eyes and tries to imagine that boy again, Kurt's expression, his eyes as they had danced across Blaine's face. Almost a week and Blaine hasn't seen him since.

Is he allowed to feel sad about that?

Blaine knows Kurt's type. The comfortable-but-not-quite-well-off type, who likes to balance between modesty and spoiling himself, who probably volunteers at a homeless shelter over the Christmas period to feel good about himself.

Yes, Blaine knows Kurt's type.

Nevertheless Blaine's smile remains even as he sleeps, drifting between dreams. Because somewhere in New York there lives a person who wants Blaine to take care of himself. Maybe it's charity, maybe it's the same pity he's been rejecting his whole life, but it doesn't matter.

His smile remains.

.

.

When they meet again it is by a coincidence neither happy nor sad. Simply a coincidence.

They meet when Blaine is somewhere between his final job and home, and at first he's too damn exhausted to even realise he's being watched.

He's too tired for the back of his neck to prickle, for hairs to be raised and for goosebumps to speckle his arms. A door slams and he flinches, turns his head instinctively. His eyes are slipping back to their path ahead of him when he stops.

Kurt is smartly dressed in slim fitting pants and an overlong jumper that's splashed with an image too fuzzy from so far away for Blaine to see properly. A trench coat is wrapped untied around his shoulders and in one hand that's fallen loosely to his side he carries some sort of file.

Blaine resists the urge to cover up his scanty, cleaned-a-few-days-ago clothes as best as he can.

Colour rises in his cheeks, washing no doubt ugly red splotches down his neck as Kurt lifts up his free hand and waves daintily, waggling his fingers like the shy hero of one of those romantic comedies Blaine stole from his mother before he left home. He can't watch them without a tv, but he still looks at the boxes sometimes, remembers watching them with his mother if he got home early enough, if she was sober enough.

Kurt's walking across the road before Blaine can react, and out of some misplaced sense of propriety he can't bring himself to walk away from that tall, purposeful stride.

"Blaine." It's more of an exhale than a word, but it sounds so much nicer on Kurt's lips that Blaine ever thought his name could.

Blaine removes his smile, passes his off as the twitch before a cough and doesn't acknowledge the gentle frown on Kurt's pale features.

Kurt's eyes flit down Blaine, resting lower than his midriff and Blaine knows he should be used to it, but for some reason it hurts this time. It hurts deep in his ribcage like very little has ever done before. Blaine's eyes follow Kurt's gaze with shaky breaths, and it's only then he realises what Kurt's looking at.

Somewhere between seeing Kurt and hearing his voice, Blaine's hand has crept into his front pocket. His fingers are clutching his ten dollar bill tightly, the corner poking out between his thumb and forefinger.

When Blaine's eyes return to Kurt's face, glittering glasz eyes are smiling though his mouth doesn't so much as twitch.

"Who's got you out so late?" Blaine covers his embarrassment with a devious grin, wets his lips slowly.

He makes sure not to notice the way those cool, pale eyes roll.

 _"Work,"_ Kurt says firmly.

"Until dawn?" Blaine drawls.

"It is not _dawn,"_ Kurt snaps back playfully, tightening his grip on his file.

"May as well be, sweetcheeks."

 _"Not_ my name."

Blaine smiles, his eyes sparkle, and he shakes his head fondly, patronisingly.

"And what does Kurt do for a living?"

There's something amusingly ironic about asking this boy, this young man, such a first date question. It brings Blaine's easy smile to a flickering, sultry grin.

He can still feel the sweat of his last customer trickling down his spine, moisture shining on his skin. He can feel remnant handprints and taste hot, damp breath in the air around him.

And maybe Blaine wonders if Kurt can tell, if Kurt will let his sweet, safe mind acknowledge the fist grab wrinkles in Blaine's shirt, the raised scratch marks along his collarbone, the bruising, swollen lips. Because they're there. All the signs are there to be seen, as clear as Kurt's smooth pallor, if only sheltered little Kurt would acknowledge them.

But he won't, of course he won't.

He simply stares at the shorter boy curiously, tilts his head to the side a little. His fingers flutter around the file in his hands.

"Can I buy you a coffee?"

Blaine blinks mutely for a moment, fights the urge to look around and make sure Kurt's definitely talking to him because this is not a romantic comedy.

For some reason Blaine keeps forgetting that.

"Umm, why?"

It's Kurt's turn to blink stupidly, and a laugh bubbles from his lips that causes Blaine's head to duck, resentful and embarrassed.

"Sorry," Kurt insists, seeing the angry flush in the smaller boy's cheeks. "I just…I don't want to go back home. I had this huge argument with my roommate and I'm not quite ready to ignore my pride long enough to apologise yet. And though I'm enough of a caffeine addict to drink alone if I must, some company would be nice."

He smiles shyly, honestly.

Blaine's large round eyes flit back up from the pavement to Kurt's face.

"I…guess?" Blaine mumbles, and he's never thought himself as so lacking in self control. What he needs it to get some sleep. What he wants (oh so very, very much) is to have coffee with this lovely, lovely boy, if only to forget the men that have surrounded him all night so far.

"I'm buying," is Kurt's only delighted reply, and Blaine doesn't think anyone has ever been so delighted for his company without the promise of an orgasm at the end of it before.

Their meandering quickly becomes a swift walk of intent, and Kurt bustles through the doorway of a twenty-four hour café, his arm reaching backwards to hold the door open long enough for Blaine to slip inside after him.

"Do you do non-fat macchiatos?" Kurt asks as he pats the counter with his fingers, and it's so very middle class, so fucking _bourgeoisie_ that Blaine has to fight his facial muscles hard to keep back a smile.

The young waitress, her false eyelashes sticky with glue and her lips smeared with red, hums for a moment.

"Um, we have fat free milk to put in the coffee?" she offers with a delicate shrug. Her eyes flick to Blaine briefly, but with no more than a glance over his apparel she hastily returns her attention to Kurt.

Blaine doesn't care. It's been a long time since he's cared.

"Oh, well that'll have to do I guess," Kurt sighs, shaking his head at this drastic sacrifice he's having to make. "And…Blaine? What are you having?"

"Just a regular coffee," he mutters, eyes on the price board behind the woman with the judging brown eyes.

The waitress nods, doesn't ask if he wants milk or sugar, accepts Kurt's cash, even smiles sweetly as she offers him his change and gives him a dutiful blush when he tells her to keep it.

Kurt turns his bright eyes back to Blaine, ushers him to a seat in the corner by the window and drops down opposite him with a dramatic flourish.

There's a brief awkward silence in which they acknowledge that yes, this smart, sophisticated boy, probably a student who thinks he's living on hard times, is buying a coffee for a prostitute.

The café air tastes of stale coffee and cold bread, or is it the other way around?

"You never told me what you do for a living?" Blaine comments lightly, voice upturning in a question that Kurt smiles at.

"I'm an assistant for the designer Isabelle Wright at Vogue dot com."

The _dot com_ brings a smile to Blaine's chapped lips. There's an air of self importance about Kurt that he feels he should probably hate, but instead it's just endearing. It feels a little like seeing a child dressing up in their parent's clothes.

The next few seconds are a silent dare for Kurt to return the question. A small part of Blaine wants nothing more than to say it out loud. To shock this little boy out of his designer socks with a truth he won't be able to understand. But for some reason he's glad when Kurt skips it and changes direction smoothly.

"Are you from New York?" he asks. "You don't sound like you are."

"Born and raised in the magical land of Ohio," Blaine smiles with sarcastic enthusiasm. He doesn't expect Kurt's eyes to widen and his mouth to drop open.

"Me too!" he cries, just in time to make the waitress jump with fright as she approaches with their cups on a tray.

"One mocha and one coffee," she mumbles as she hands them their drinks.

Blaine pretends not to notice the way she makes sure their hands don't touch as he accepts his cup.

Kurt throws her a _thanks_ as warmly as can be managed but his eyes never leave Blaine's face, even as he sips his lukewarm mocha.

"I'm from Lima," he explains excitedly, as if expecting Blaine to know where that is. And oh, yes, Blaine does remember Lima.

At least, he remembers the men from Lima, which is really close enough, he thinks.

"Westerville, sort of," he returns, and they share an almost knowing smile. Over work gaps and social chasms they have found common ground at last.

" _Wes_ terville?" The recognition in Kurt's voice is unmistakeable, his excitement tangible.

"Yeah, small world, huh?" Blaine shrugs awkwardly.

He tries not to sound too reluctant, but apparently Kurt reads him anyway. His open mouth shuts momentarily and he inspects his cup for the briefest of seconds before speaking again.

"So when did you come to New York?"

"Just over a year ago," Blaine figures. He's paid his monthly rent thirteen times, so that sounds about right. "You?"

It's only polite to ask, he supposes. Even if it is blindingly obvious.

"Oh, just a couple of months ago," Kurt flashes a winning smile that seems to make the café's flickering fluorescent lights shine just a little brighter. He taps his fingers and shuffles around in his seat, full of childish energy. "I didn't get into the college I wanted to go to, so I'm re-applying."

"Oh," Blaine says lightly, full of what he hopes is appropriate enthusiasm and interest. He hasn't known many people who got further than high school at all, let alone someone who tried to more than once. "Where's that?"

"The New York Academy of Dramatic Arts!"

Blaine's never heard of it, but it sounds impressive.

"Wow, you're…really brave, wanting to do something like that."

He isn't sure where it came from; it had slipped from his lips before he could formulate a well planned, structured response. Natural, it startles him to realise.

He worries for a moment, and perhaps it shows on his face, but any lines of concern on his forehead are soon smoothed out. Kurt's looking at him frankly, his expression unreadable but for the surprise in his eyes.

"Thank you, Blaine," so very sincere and so _very…young_ sounding.

Out of nowhere Blaine can envision a young Kurt, ten or eleven years old, meek and insecure, all blue eyes and smooth skin, and it touches a place inside Blaine he hadn't realised was reachable.

They haven't quite hit a brick wall, not even come to a dead end. They've just stopped for a while. They stop long enough to breathe and to drink and to just be.

They catch eyes a few times. The first time Kurt blushes, and Blaine finds it endearing despite himself. The second time they hold for a few seconds, sharing thoughts of nothingness. The third time they even smile.

"You didn't have to do this, you know," Blaine says abruptly, and he tunes out his own inner monologue that's begging him to let it go and simply enjoy it.

But he can't, because Blaine's starting to worry that maybe Kurt just is that naïve, that _precious._

"Do what?"

"You know. Buy me coffee."

"Blaine," Kurt shakes his head fondly and Blaine gets the feeling his hair in being mentally ruffled, the way Coach used to do before a game. "It's just coffee. I wanted the company."

And of course, people _always_ pay for Blaine's company. Maybe Kurt doesn't need the orgasm at the end of it. Maybe Blaine read the signs all wrong, maybe Kurt isn't gay. Or maybe Kurt's asexual, who knows? It doesn't matter, Blaine realises, because he likes this.

He doesn't mind Kurt buying his company; he'll even let it happen again if it's like this every time.

"Yeah, well, this is New York." He says it as if he's reading from a dictionary. _This is New York_ , an umbrella term to cover all manner of sins.

"Yeah, well, nothing. I'm glad you joined me."

Their cups are drained and there's really no other excuse to drag it out any longer. They scuffle and linger for a few blessed moments before hurrying out into the cold night air.

They stand together on the pavement in the pooled light from the café window.

"Well, I'm this way," Kurt says brightly, a little too brightly, jerking his thumb up the road and hitching his file into a stronger grip.

"I'm…" Blaine looks around. Up the street will take him home; down the street will take him to a black car, almost silhouetted in the streetlights, as it crawls without taste or subtlety along the kerb.

His stomach is full of hot (well, _warm)_ coffee, but his back pocket is a little empty tonight. When he finds Kurt's face it isn't hard to see the apprehension. Blaine can only be glad it's not an expression of disgust. Or at least Kurt's good at hiding any he feels.

"I'll see you around, Blaine," Kurt mumbles awkwardly, blushing a furious shade of red and twisting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet.

"Um, yeah, thanks again," Blaine hovers on flighty feet. If he isn't quick the car will disappear around the corner. If he isn't quick someone else will steal his seat in that ride.

After all, he's dime a dozen around these parts.

"Goodbye," Kurt swallows around his farewell and Blaine really can't blame him for scurrying up the street, away, away, away.

It's how it is, it's how it's always been.

It's how it always will be.

Blaine saunters casually up to the car, rubs the taste of coffee from his lips with a sticky mint from his pocket. The window is down by the time he reaches it. He leans easily on his forearms. A half-shadowed face stares out of the driver's seat at him. He smiles coyly, bites his lips slowly and wets them with his tongue.

A click of a lock and Blaine slides in.

"Where to?" he asks in a low, gravelled voice.

For the first time, the words sound alien on his tongue.


	4. No Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as much Klaine in this chapter - but a bit o' development! Thanks thanks thanks to all readers. Also, there's a bit of a rearrangement of Season 4 timeline, although as this is already very much AU I'm sure you won't mind.

 

Yours Is the Skin of the Mysterious

  
_Just one night, just one night… There's no way, 'cause you can't pay._

_~ Christian & Satine, Elephant Love Medley, Moulin Rouge_

**Chapter Three**

They meet in the dark like lovers, exchanging not kisses but coffee. Coffee and words and even the occasional smile, they fill the silences that fall between them when Blaine rubs at a bite mark on his jaw, when Kurt blushes and looks pointedly away.

"What's your earliest childhood memory?" Kurt asks.

And Blaine rambles something shit about a swing set and the ringing bells of his mother's laughter.

"When did you lose your virginity?" Blaine asks.

Kurt chokes on his non-answer. "Excuse me?"

"When did you-"

"Define, uh, losing your, um…" he can't even spit the word out, and Blaine's smile laps it up, a starving cat to thick, rich cream.

"Putting your dick up-"

"Never!"

"Or having one put-"

"Never!"

Those panicked squeaks of shameful humiliation, not at the confession but at the very topic of their abrupt discussion one icy Wednesday night.

They're sitting alone on a bench in Battery Park, quite far from their usual haunts. Their footsteps have taken them far and so, apparently has their conversation.

It's become an every-other-night-or-so thing, this meeting after hours, if only for fifteen minutes to tease and talk and just _breathe_.

"You mean you've _never_ -"

"I've _done_ stuff," Kurt blushes at his knees as he stutters an embarrassment that rattles his pride, nearly breaks his fingers as he wrings them together. "With a boyfriend back in Ohio. We just never, um, got that far."

Blaine doesn't understand this answer; Kurt can hear it in his breathy silence. He peeks up from his fluttering lashes to see Blaine staring at him in a bemusement that makes Kurt feels very, very small; very, very sad.

"But why?"

When Kurt shrugs, it isn't from a lack of answer.

"It just never felt like the right time. I want it to mean something. To be special."

"But why? Kurt, it's just sex. It's an animal thing, we all do it. As long as you-"

"Maybe to you, Blaine, but not to me."

And Kurt blanches with guilt, snaps his head back to his friend from where he's turned angrily away. But Blaine is still watching him contentedly, albeit confusedly. Unaffected by Kurt's cutting words; _in agreement_ , in fact, and it only twists the regret in Kurt's stomach, hurts worse than before.

They sit in silence. Silence but for a gentle snicker that escapes Blaine's smirking lips.

His empty polystyrene coffee cup tumbles to the ground as he reaches over. Two fingers of his right hand walk coolly over Kurt's jean clad knee, dancing up to his lower thigh.

"You know…" Blaine smiles mischievously, takes in Kurt's discomfort, the way his ice blue eyes stare hard at the strong hand hovering over his leg. "I could make it very special for-"

"No, Blaine." Kurt slaps his hand away hurriedly.

Blaine's laugh is hard and horrible.

"Ok," he stutters around a smoker's cough, chugging in his lungs. "I get it."

Kurt's ruffled tail feathers settle at Blaine's genuine expression of apology.

And it is genuine, it really is. Because Blaine really does get it.

Kurt wants _it_ to be special. And fuck if Blaine knows what that means, but he knows that's not him. Blaine's not special, hasn't been for years.

His father thought he was special, but not special enough to take him to L.A. with Cooper. And Coach, Coach always thought he was special. But he moved, moved to somewhere else. Kentucky or maybe Kansas.

Away. Away from Blaine, who was special once but isn't anymore.

Yes, Blaine really, really gets it.

.

.

"Hon, there's someone here to see you. He's in the lobby."

Kurt frowns at Cathy, who gives him a clueless shrug.

"What does he, mm, look like?"

 _Surely he wouldn't_ , is all Kurt can think.

"Uh, dark hair?" she waves a hand around her own head, which is covered in bright red twisting locks. Kurt's breath catches sharply in his throat. _He couldn't…_ "Really _really_ tall. Like, hit your head on the clouds tall."

Guilt writhes in his stomach like a viper before he can quite understand why, but it soon sinks its fangs deep into his flesh.

Of _course_ Blaine wouldn't come see him at work. He'll be sleeping, no doubt. And no doubt _no doubt_ Blaine knows better. Knows what a respectable establishment this is and how much it would ruin Kurt's tentatively built reputation if a shameless whore came a-knocking for him.

Now that feeling is there, he can't purge himself of it. Self-hating, self-sickening.

Because he would be _mortified_ if Blaine was to be seen at work with him, albeit innocently, and Blaine probably knows that.

"Kurt?" Cathy snaps her fingers in his face impatiently, with those purple taloned fingers.

"Uh, Finn?" he startles himself out of his revelatory trance.

"Don't know, hon," Cathy shrugs again, half ignorant and half nonchalant. "Go on, hon. You need a break anyhow."

Kurt glances in at Isabelle on his way out; she waves him away with a smile as she talks amicably on the phone, using that way she has with just her voice, her soothing voice that can placate the most dissatisfied of investors and clients alike.

"Finn!" Kurt cries when he finally reaches the lobby. "What are you doing here?"

He lets Finn envelop him in a Hudson hug, hold him tight the way only a brother can, and it's only as he lets Finn's warmth surround him that Kurt realises just how much he misses his brother.

"Thought I'd come see my little bro," Finn grins, rolling his eyes at Kurt's expected protest. ( _One month, Finn!_ )

"I thought you'd be, well…we didn't think we'd see you so soon-"

"Not we," Finn shifts awkwardly. "Just, uh, you. I've checked into a hotel. Not because…"

"I know, Finn. Don't worry."

"I would stay with you, man, but Rachel…"

And there it is. _But Rachel._

"Well it's great to see you, Finn, but I'm-"

"Your friend said you were on an early lunch break," Finn interjects. He's bouncing eager as a child on the balls of his feet, inadvertently towering higher than ever over his (older, littler-but-older) brother.

"No, I usually…" _don't eat lunch_ , he realises, will not go down well. Unfortunately, however, Finn unhelpfully has his blinkers off and his observation radar switched on to maximum volume. He glowers at Kurt with deepest admonishment, and Kurt has a momentary flash into Finn Hudson's future of fatherhood.

"Kurt, dude, you need to eat lunch. You're always going on at your dad about health stuff, but you need to take care of you, too."

It's thoughtful and insightful and charming and so very god damn _Finn Hudson_ it makes Kurt want to pack up his things and move back to Lima just to be around that splendid, naïve wonder all the time.

Well, perhaps not quite, but it at least makes him yearn for Thanksgiving, when he can justifiably fly back to Ohio, pretend it's just an obligatory holiday visit and nothing to do with the homesickness that keeps tickling him at the oddest of moments.

They're walking out of the doors before Kurt can formulate an excuse, and rather than drag it out he remains quiet.

"I think I saw a sandwich bar on my way. That ok?"

"Mellan's Deli, yeah, it's good."

Finn's sheer joy at the prospect of a sandwich for lunch is simple enough to bring a smile to Kurt's face, a family smile. They chat around the easy subjects, a little delicately for brothers who are supposed to be comfortable screaming about whose turn it is to choose the television channel back home. Kurt's job, Finn's job, the garage.

New York is alive with an October breeze that carries the voices of the busybody streets through the air. Kurt loves it, loves it the way he could never love Lima in a hundred years of trying. The stark anonymity of being just another face in a crowd. Kurt's always thought of himself as a spotlight lover, and he is, he truly is.

It's just that New York anonymous is so _different_ to Lima anonymous. It's exciting, not frustrating; exhilarating, not disheartening.

Dizzying.

Mellan's Deli is comprised of a clean, well stocked deli counter, twelve tables of two, and a guaranteed bright smile planted on a friendly face.

"Kurt!" the friendly face in question smiles even wider around Kurt's name. He pointedly ignores Finn's raised eyebrows, replies with a smile of his own.

"Hey Joel, how's it going?"

"Oh, so you remember who I am?" Joel pouts as he snaps on a pair of plastic gloves. "And here I was thinking I'd done something terribly wrong."

"No, I've just been busy."

"Ah, the sad and sorry tale of a workaholic," Joel slaps his chest over his heart and beats a rapid that pulse that Kurt scoffs at.

"I am not a workaholic."

"Food-a-phobe, then."

Finn's loud cough brings them out of their bubble. A bubble Kurt has neglected recently, but apparently not even skipping lunch for almost a fortnight is enough to shut him out of it forever.

"Mr Hummel!" Joel smirks. "Who is this fine fetching fellow?"

"My brother, Finn," Kurt glares at the man behind the counter.

Finn squirms awkwardly under Joel's appraising eye. He doesn't like the sandy blond hair that's swept up out of his face, or the sparkly eyes so blue they can't possibly be trusted.

"Oh good," Joel makes no attempt to hide his delight. "I was about to get jealous."

His saucy wink does nothing but pull another laugh from Kurt and an under the breath growl from Finn who, rather than be flustered at the brief mistake of his identity is only concerned by the light blush that dusts Kurt's cheekbones an upsetting, pleasant shade of ruby.

"Joel Parkinson," Kurt shakes his head in delicate admonishment. "You're a lucky man to have a girlfriend as forgiving as yours is."

He doesn't pay heed to Finn's splutter.

"What'll it be, babycakes?"

"I'll have the usual, and…" Kurt nods his head at the menu chalkboard over Joel's head. "My treat," he informs Finn with a reassuring grin as he spies his brother's disgust at New York prices.

"Uh, the Meat Feast Deluxe."

It's Finn's turn to ignore Kurt as the slighter boy mutters about protein overdoses and possible compensation of something or another.

"One Hummel special and one Meat Feast coming up! Take a seat, boys!" Joel claps his hands together and sings a tinkling tune that sounds a little too similar to Hakuna Matata as he slices open the first ciabatta.

Kurt drags his brother away from the counter before Finn has the chance to maul the bright smile straight off Joel's tanned face.

They take the free table closest to the window, whereupon Finn glowers darkly over his shoulder towards the counter.

"Finn Hudson, I didn't bring you here so that you could be rude to my friends."

"Your _friends_? Kurt, that guy is _not_ -"

"He is straight, Finn. Straight as you."

"He was flirting."

"He has a girlfriend, Finn-"

"He was flirting."

"I flirt with girls all the time, Finn. That doesn't mean I'm interested in them."

"Kurt, it's not…"

Kurt is pretty sure he should be offended. Instead he enjoys watching Finn cut himself off, swallow his words the way he's only recently learning to do.

"It _is_ the same, Finn Hudson. Joel Parkinson is my friend. Santana spends every chance she can flirting with as many men as possible. Is she any less of a lesbian?"

When in doubt, Finn knows to change conversation fast, particularly if talking to Kurt Hummel.

"So, uh, how've you been?"

Kurt lets it go. Just this once, because he doesn't want to spoil his lunch with Finn debating his brother's varying levels of insensitivity and ignorance.

There'll be plenty of opportunities before Finn leaves, he's sure of it as his lips curl into a wry smile.

.

.

"Where have you been?"

Kurt would flinch if he hadn't expected it the moment he realised he was going to be home nineteen minutes later than he'd promised Rachel he would be this morning on his way out to work.

"I went for a drink."

Short, sweet, simple. Not enough.

"With who?"

"Whom, Rachel. Whom."

"With _whom_?"

"A friend."

"What friend?"

He's not sure why doesn't just lie. Maybe because he's finding it increasingly easy to lie to Rachel about what he's doing. And while there _is_ a (guilty guilty guilty) reason for him to lie about Blaine, why _should_ he lie about spending time with his brother? With the man that Rachel still can't quite admit didn't deserve the hand that she, Rachel Berry dealt him.

"Finn, Rach. I was with Finn."

Kurt wouldn't be surprised if her breath had cut her throat on its way down at her sharp gasp.

"He's in town?"

"Yes, Rachel. He wanted to see me."

"Oh," and really, what else is there for her to say?

She hums and flutters around her friend as he unravels his scarf and slips his arms out of his coat, both of which land gracefully on the arm of their sofa.

She continues to hover and flit even as Kurt makes himself a large mug of coffee, delicately stirring in a dollop of cream and humming Hakuna Matata to himself between sips.

"Kurt," Rachel insists as politely as she can ever hope to be, her thumbs tangling together and her shoulders bunched around her ears.

"Yes, Rachel?"

He knows he's being cruel, but it's too much of a temptation. For an entire afternoon (and _damn_ Cathy and Isabelle for tricking him into half a day off) he's been watching Finn struggle against a quiet forlornness, bite back his words every time the conversation had drifted a little too close to his ex-girlfriend.

"Kurt, please. How is he?"

Kurt blinks slowly over the rim of his mug.

"Do you care? Or do you just want me to make _you_ feel better, Rachel?"

"Do I care? Kurt, I know you're angrier at me for what happened than you've let on, but I _did_ love Finn. I loved him for a very long time. I _care_ , Kurt."

Kurt smiles sadly, wrinkles his eyes and twists his lips.

"He's ok, Rachel."

"Does he…"

She thinks better of it and closes her mouth, but it's out there now.

"Yes, he misses you. He needs more time."

"Oh. That's umm…ok."

She scurries back to the kitchen, helps herself to coffee of her own before dropping down into the cushions and curling up tight into her best friend's warmth at his side.

Kurt wraps an arm around her and rubs her shoulder, not unlike the way he'd parted ways with Finn barely twenty minutes ago.

He kisses the top of her head (although this wasn't something he'd shared with Finn, an inability to reach not being the first reason why) and she smells of strawberry shampoo.

"You're ok, too, you know."

"Of course I am. I always am."

She always is. She's Rachel Berry, after all.

"He must've been in town for a while. Isn't he supposed to be running the Glee Club?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're always going out recently. I assumed-"

"He only arrived today."

"So where have you…Kurt Hummel."

And of course, being Rachel Berry comes with the emotional instability that rivals a unnerved tigress.

When a sugary smile fails, he tries the disarming one armed shrug, complete with lips down-turned in confusion.

"Kurt, who have you been _meet_ ing?"

She's halfway through her sentence when her suspicion becomes devious delight.

"Rachel, _no_." He's insistent and so worried it comes across as angry, but his anger is yet to deter Rachel Berry.

"Oh Kurt, tell me tell me _tell_ me!"

"There's no-one, Rachel."

"So you've been wandering the streets of New York _alone_? Not even you would be that stupid."

He chooses to ignore the insinuation.

"Who-"

"A friend, Rachel. He's nothing more than a friend."

"And who is _he_?"

Oh how Kurt hates that toothy smile of hers, the stark non-innocence of it.

And yet the name is bubbling to his lips, just as it does every time he wants to tell someone about something hilarious that happened the night before, but can't because nobody knows about Blaine.

"Blaine."

It blurts out from between loose lips, eager and ridiculous.

And Rachel laps it up oh so quickly.

"Blaine? And how did you meet this _Blaine_?"

"When we were out one night."

True enough, though he really hopes she won't press further.

"I see," Rachel waggles her eyebrows poorly; Kurt refrains from pointing out that they may just have found something Rachel Berry herself cannot do. "And do I get to meet him?"

"No!"

Kurt's stomach contracts at the panicked thought of his best friend meeting Blaine, and proceeds to shrivel and wriggle with shame at that very fact. Rachel startles a little at the ferocity of his rejection, leaning away from him to stare.

Her words come out in a series of edgy chuckles.

"That was a bit, um, _fierce_."

"I just…" Words fail him, and if that isn't just the most humiliating thing…

"You _like_ him, don't you?"

She starts to sing it, because, well, she's Rachel Berry. And isn't that just marvellous?

"You _like_ him, _like_ him, you _like_ him. You you _like_ him, _like like_ him."

Most of the time, at least.

He knows that splendid feeling that precedes a crush. Champagne bubbles replacing the air in his lungs, every pair of shoes adorned with taps so he can dance his way down every street.

He's been ignoring it for the past week.

"No."

"You're blushing."

"Am not."

"Kurt, let's not lie to ourselves, ok?"

"Rach, please stop."

"What's so bad about liking someone, Kurt? It's about time, I say."

But that's just it. There's absolutely nothing wrong with liking _someone_.

Does it make him a bad person that he's pretty sure there's something wrong with liking Blaine?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Warnings for sex, language, yada yada. And a somewhat judgmental Kurt. Please drop me a line and let me know your thoughts!

 

Yours Is the Skin of the Mysterious

  
_You don't look at their faces, and you do not ask their names. You don't think of them as human, you don't think of them at all. You keep your mind on the money, keeping your eyes on the wall._

_~ Private Dancer, Tina Turner_

**Chapter Four**

**  
**

Boyish, Kurt realises late one Thursday night. Blaine is boyish.

It's the word he's been searching for. Every time he looks into Blaine's (boyish) face, with those glittering (boyish) eyes and his lips stretched into a wide (boyish) smile he's tried so desperately hard to think of that word.

Boyish.

It's perfect, really. It's everything Blainefrom his eyelashes to his hips, his curly hair to his lips.

He thinks about maybe telling Blaine of his revelation. Blaine, you're boyish! But he refrains.

Because really, he's not boyish at all.

There's some deeper meaning to a word like that, it holds an innocence associated with children and naivety and playfulness and Blaine really isn't any of those things.

Sometimes Blaine's lips pout and Kurt sees a flash of six year old Blaine; sometimes Blaine stares in wonder at something simple and commonplace that Kurt has said, and it's a terrifying insight into what Blaine'severyday life must be; and sometimes Blaine scurries and sings under his breath and tickles Kurt mercilessly and it's probably the only time Kurt sees Blaine acting his god damn age.

So yes, maybe boyish can describe Blaine. But only sometimes.

"We need to find a better coffee shop," Kurt groans one Saturday night as they hurry with heads bowed against the street-channelled breeze out of the twenty-four hour café. It's the same one as that first night, which seems so long ago now but in fact only a few weeks have passed. "GaGa, I miss The Lima Bean."

Blaine's head snaps up to him, and his eyes widen. It would be comical if he didn't look so spooked.

"What?" Kurt sniggers, enjoying the perfect o shape of Blaine's lips.

"You went to The Lima Bean?"

"Is there something wrong with going there?"

Blaine's not sure what to say. Of course not, it just so happens that's the car park where I'd pick up some of my most faithful customers.

Kurt can't even bear to look at a hickey on his neck; he doesn't think the boy would appreciate an answer like that.

"Nope, I just forgot we lived so close."

"You went to The Lima Bean, too?"

And oh, isn't Kurt's excitement so heartbreaking? It's like they've found some otherworldly connection, but really it's just something else that would drive them apart if Blaine told him the truth.

So he doesn't.

"Uh, sometimes."

Well, a half truth. He did go there. He went quite a few times, actually. Until he got kicked out when he was caught blowing a guy in the toilets. But hey, he got the usual cash and a coffee and muffin beforehand out of it, so he couldn't really complain.

"That's where my lifelong romance with biscotti began," Kurt sighs tragically. He laughs at himself and shrugs at Blaine, who grins and tries to remember whether or not he's ever actually tried biscotti before.

Their pseudo-routine takes them on a slow stroll along the pavement. Blaine can feel the faint vibrations of pounding club music close by through the worn soles of his converse, the pulsing of dancers and drinkers.

His body is thrumming with unnerved energy, the salty New York air tang of weekend sex and relaxation a trigger to his tensing muscles and labouring lungs.

"Well, I should go," Kurt says lightly. From the corner of his eye he can see Blaine's entire frame vibrating with adrenaline. It's not often the shorter boy is so keyed up, and it's beginning to make Kurt nervous.

"Oh, um, ok." Blaine tries his best to sound unaffected, disinterested, so very not bothered.

It works, mostly.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Kurt presses gently.

They can feel it, that brick wall of shame and shamelessness stacking itself up between them, taller and taller every time they part ways to pursue their respective nightly callings. Kurt can taste something bitter on his tongue, metallic as blood and scorching as acid.

Kurt has coveted a human being only twice in his life.

The first, as a young boy half orphaned less than a year before, watching another boy sitting in his mother's lap; oh how Kurt had wanted a mother so badly, with that heartbroken, irreparable, incomprehensible envy.

The second, a lonely middle schooler, watching a classmate fall and split open his knee, only for his older brother to come rushing over and help him out; oh how Kurt had wanted a sibling – brother, sister, who gave a fuck? Just someone to look out for him the way that boy helped his little brother.

And now a third time.

He swallows back down the bile that swills in his cramping stomach, clenches his fists and breathes coolly, evenly, watching Blaine's tongue run along his lips until they shine wetly in the streetlamp lights, watching Blaine smooth a hand over his snugly fitted jeans, as if displaying the price tags on designer clothes racks, watching Blaine pull his shirt downwards just enough to reveal that bit more of his collar bones where they jut alarmingly out of his chest.

No, Kurt is perhaps not covetous by nature, but he can want all the same, and tears burn behind his eyes as he walks home after a swift, painful goodbye as calmly as his trembling knees allow.

Yes, Kurt can want. But can he want Blaine?

.

.

Kurt loves Vogue dot com, he really, really does. And he loves Isabelle Wright, he really, really does.

But sometimes, both Vogue and Isabelle can wear him out.

Sunday, that faithful day of rest, as Mercedes would say with relieved delight whenever she came around to see her best friend after church back in Lima.

It's not that Kurt had wanted to go to church that Sunday morning; it's just that he didn't want to be at work, either.

There's only three of them, Cathy, Derek and Kurt, all brave (stupid) enough to answer Isabelle's phone call at quarter to eight in the morning. They've been running around for over four hours, emailing and delivering and phone-calling and stock counting and package marking and photocopying and god knows what else.

Kurt's already volunteered himself twice for coffee runs, just for the chance to get out of that glorious, wondrous, magnificent, stifling office.

"She must be running out of steam by now," Derek grumbles under his breath as he takes a pile of folders out of Kurt's arms and begins filtering through them until he reaches the letter J.

Kurt hasn't had the chance to talk to Derek very much since he started his job, though everyone knows who he is, nothing beyond brief Hello, how's it going? Oh fine, thanks, you?

"You'd know," Kurt shrugs, flexing his fingers and inspecting a suspected paper cut between his left thumb and forefinger.

Derek, the considered veteran of Isabelle's team, laughs sadly, and it's all Kurt needs to know that the truth is Isabelle could probably keep going for hours yet.

"You're doing a real good job, Kurt," Derek encourages in his reliably friendly voice.

He's not old, Kurt decides in that moment, taking in the soft smiling lines around the man's eyes and lips.

There's a maturity in his face that makes Kurt think of the old Hollywood stars that Kurt had secretly swooned over as a young teen, the splashes of premature grey hair at his temples and the calm, accepting temperament of a man with enough life experience to know it doesn't always have to be go go go.

"Thanks," Kurt chirps brightly, bouncing on the balls of his feet and pushing away the grin that threatens to reveal just how honoured he is that Derek would pay the compliment.

Kurt's fast accepting that Derek Marchland is just going to be one of those inescapable crushes that never really goes away but isn't really anything worth bothering about, either.

He likes those crushes. They're manageable. He can cope with crushes like that; the ones that make him feel safe.

"How are enjoying-"

"Hon, Isabelle needs those files, like, ten minutes ago," Cathy barks as she bustles past the open door where Kurt's standing. Kurt knows she doesn't mean to sound like a spitting cat, so he holds back from snarling an angry retort at being so rudely shouted at.

"Duty calls," Derek teases lightly with a wink, and Kurt skips away in as polite a fast escape as possible, just in case he accidentally blushes.

The files in question are sitting precariously on the edge of Kurt's tiny desk where Cathy left them, and he scoops them up in both arms without really stopping on his way to Isabelle's office.

She's sitting at her computer, hair dropping out of her bun in wisps and curls that frame her face in a frazzled, not so angelic halo.

"The files?" she thrusts out a hand to take them before Kurt can knock more than once on her semi open door.

At a speed Kurt finds he cannot truly keep up with she begins sorting the papers from her invoice tray into various folders, barely pausing to read their labels.

"How are you doing, Kurt? I'm so sorry about this. We don't do big clean ups very often, but I'm afraid they're necessary."

Of course, Kurt's the newbie here, grateful for any and all experience that Ms. Wright can offer him. He's in no position to complain, and he has no plans to do so, anyway.

"Well, an annoying paper cut aside I'm great. No need to apologise it's…unexpectedly thrilling. And satisfyingly productive, at least."

Isabelle's frantic expression softens, and she gestures to the chair Kurt had sat in a mere couple of months ago to interview for this very job.

"You're sweet," she announces, and he brushes off her patronisation with a smile of his own. "Actually, Kurt, there is something I want to talk to you about. Now, if you're not too busy."

Kurt feels his eyebrows tilt in confusion, but he settles into his chair a little better and shakes his head.

"What is it?"

"It's just that I was walking home late from work last night, Kurt. And I saw you with, ah, someone."

Kurt's blood isn't sure whether to rush to his cheeks or drain from his face, and it tickles his veins, making him squirm uncomfortably.

"He's just a friend," he insists immediately. He doesn't like the dark concern in Isabelle's washed green eyes.

"Kurt, I've lived in New York a long time. He was a-"

"I know what he does," Kurt interrupts, and he would feel bad if he wasn't in such a panic. "I know, but he is…he is just a friend. I swear."

"Are you sure you know what he does, Kurt?" Isabelle leans back in her chair coolly, and Kurt can't help the laugh of slight hysteria. What?

"Of course I know what he does. I just-"

"No, Kurt, I don't think you do. I mean, have you ever really thought about it?"

"I can't say I'm in the habit of imagining my friends having sex," Kurt snaps defensively, and it seems his blood has finally made its decision as heat begins to rise from his shirt collar, all the way up into his scalp.

"It's not just sex, though, Kurt. People like your friend," – it's disbelieving and worried and Kurt hates it so so much – "they have sex for money, and that's…it's not something you can easily put aside."

"I know," Kurt perseveres. "If I could help him change? I would do it in a heartbeat, I would. But it's like he's hiding something. Without even meaning to, he's just all closed up and confusing and I want to…I want to help him. And if that's just by being his friend, I'll do it."

Isabelle's defeated sigh isn't encouraging, the melancholic shake of her head and the way she leans forward with her elbows on her desk, as if proximity will help Kurt understand her better.

"Kurt, I think you're a lot like me. You're like quite a few people I know. You care so much. You don't think people can see it, but they can. I know how much you care about people. But you also don't seem to trust very easily – don't argue, that's ok. It's ok, Kurt. But for someone who maybe takes a bit of time to trust people, I just don't think trusting a prostitute of all people is the right thing to do."

She completes her monologue with a folding her arms and a puppy dog tilt of her head.

Kurt lets her words sink in.

Prostitute, such an ugly word. Not as bad as whore, perhaps, but not much better, either.

It doesn't suit Blaine, Kurt decides. Blaine isn't a prostitute. The word doesn't fit.

"And in any case," Isabelle breezes on, not unkindly, but with the air of one in deepest discomfort, yet determined to power through. "Do you know if this friend of yours, well, if he answers to anyone?"

At Kurt's questioning look the woman shrinks into her shoulders a little.

"You know, if there's someone else getting something out of this? Maybe a little cut of his money?"

Kurt's suddenly incredibly grateful of Isabelle's own embarrassment; because he's pretty sure he'd have quite literally dropped stone dead on the floor if she'd genuinely used the word pimp.

What a crude, horrid word.

An altogether new and terrifying one that conjures another hundred questions that Kurt hasn't even considered before. Because what if it's true? What if there is someone sending Blaine, Kurt's Blaine, out night after night, into a thousand men's arms over and over again.

Kurt's Blaine?

He doesn't put too much thought into it.

The shiver that runs the length of Kurt's body isn't pleasant, it doesn't tingle magically like those champagne bubbles in his lungs at the thought of Blaine; there's no rush of happy adrenaline.

Fear and yes, anger, too. Fury at this potential person whom Blaine has never mentioned before.

"How do you know your friend's not getting into trouble for spending time with you instead of, well, working?"

There is no answer, because, well, there just isn't.

Blaine would say something, wouldn't he?

Kurt cannot suspend this particular disbelief. He doubts Blaine would so much as tell Kurt his last name if he asked.

He is sure, however, that Blaine wouldn't risk anything serious just for a twenty minute coffee with him.

Would he?

Kurt beats down the flutter in his diaphragm as it contracts at the thought of being so important to Blaine. It's selfish and greedy and so unlikely it doesn't do any good to consider.

"Just be careful, ok Kurt?" Isabelle concludes, and Kurt takes it as his cue to leave.

"I will," Kurt promises, brushing imaginary wrinkles from his shirt and retreating to the door, his head buzzing.

Isabelle dismisses him with a final wave, which he returns half-heartedly.

A frown settles into his brow as waspish questions zoom and sting around his thoughts; it remains until he runs into Derek at the printing room, where he insists that no, really, I'm fine, just tired. He plasters a smile onto his lips, but he doesn't blush at Derek's encouraging, parting wink this time.

The frown remains.

.

.

He's a bit early, but he figures it can't hurt too much. Every time they've met, Blaine's already been waiting for him, huddled with his fists in his pockets as he stands outside the café waiting for Kurt to appear, unwilling to go inside alone.

Kurt stuffs his hands deeper into his coat pockets and presses his lips into his scarf. It's a particularly chilly night, unusually so for so early in November, and he wonders if Blaine's got a coat to wear, or if that would count as covering up too much skin.

When he arrives the café and the street outside it are both empty, but Kurt figures if Blaine can stand waiting in the cold for him, he can do it for Blaine, too.

So he bundles his fists tighter and tenses his muscles in a vain attempt to stop a shudder as another breeze finds it way between the folds of his layers of clothing until he feels as if he may as well be walking around naked for all the good his clothes are doing.

He swivels his head up and down the street every few minutes, eyes sweeping over the buildings and the mostly empty pavement as the evening sky darkens. He stamps his feet a few times, checks his phone for the millionth time, replies to Joel's text that yes, they are still on for lunch tomorrow (and no, I'm not telling you about him – because, well, nobody knows about Blaine, not really).

When ten minutes past their agreed time goes by, Kurt begins to worry. His eyebrows tremble with equal cold and concern, and his neck muscles are starting to ache from the twisting and turning. His eyes strain in the cold dark to spy Blaine's short, lithe frame, but nothing so similar appears.

Five minutes later, he begins to walk.

Not back the way, but onwards.

He walks with what he hopes looks like a confident strut in the direction Blaine so often disappears to when they part ways at the end of their…their what? Dates?

He brushes past the thought before it gets dangerous.

He walks and looks and bites his teeth together hard.

Kurt knows it's his imagination that makes the very air darker, thicker, colder, the further he walks, but he can't help the shivers.

He pays as equally little attention to those around him as they do to him. The night is young, and there's only the buzzing promise of parties and drunkenness in the air. The music of the clubs is only just beginning, and the bouncers outside look bored by the lacking custom.

Kurt walks on.

He walks on until he's alone on a small street, where he stops to take in the sounds that he can no longer ignore. They're coming from an alley close by, no attempt to muffle them in the least. They echo from the darkness and Kurt, stupid, stupid, stupid Kurt, takes a step closer, shifts nervously, and dares a glance down the dimly lit passage.

Backed into the corner is a woman whose age he could only guess. Her eyes are smeared with black and squeezed tight shut; her lips are a smudgy red and open wide to let out her series of gasps and moans.

Between her legs is a man. His pants are open and draped around his thighs as he presses over and over between hers. With one hand he holds her tight enough to keep her suspended, but the other roams and squeezes and fondles. He's pressing his forehead into the crook of her neck, all the better to hear her repeated encouragements and pleas as he grunts and groans.

Kurt stands long enough only to hear the man's hard, husky voice growl of _fucking tight cunt_ as he drives his hips harder and harder against the cornered woman, and then he runs.

He runs to the end of the street, out of earshot but he can't erase that, now. It's imprinted, the sight and the sounds are there forever and he doesn't know what to do about that.

So distracted by his own horror, he almost doesn't notice the voice drifting from around the corner, down a small slip between a run down apartment block and a club that's not open for another hour or so.

His ears prick and the hairs on his arms rise, though the enveloping cold is forgotten.

And he really, truly doesn't know what makes him do it. It's an impulse he can't shake and an instinct he acts upon without conscious control.

A gasp of _Uh, little bitch_ and he walks towards that alley under a spell of dormant fear.

And even as that voice grows louder, and a series of guttural slapping sounds join the melodic stream of pleasure-filled cries, Kurt approaches.

 _Uh, yes, take it, the hard_ , lusty voice demands, and Kurt knows, fucking knows what he's going to see, but he looks anyway.

Expected or not, he isn't prepared for what he finds.

The growling words are issuing from a man leaning back against the wall, pants pooled around his ankles, while he drives deeper into an open mouth.

 _Fucking slut_ , the man groans in highest praise, and though one hand continues to scratch at the wall beside him, the other reaches forwards. His fingers nestle strongly into rich black curls and he pushes his hips further still.

The boy on his knees pulls the man closer, submitting himself completely, until finally the thrusting stutters and jerks to a satisfied halt. The hand keeps a tight hold on the boy's hair.

"Swallow it," he gasps one last command, pulling tighter until he's sure the boy is finished.

And then, brushing the kneeling figure aside his pants are up and zipped and his tie is straightened. He pats the boy's head, drops a bill of some kind into his lap, and tells him he's a good boy.

Kurt flinches back, but the man is too intent to get home (to a wife or a husband or a cold empty apartment?) to notice a trembling figure hidden in the shadow of doorway.

When Kurt peeks back down the alley, Blaine is still on his knees.

He's spitting and gagging until a splatter of white spills from his lips and splashes on the ground in front of him.

And then he ripples his shoulders, stands up and stretches as if waking from a nap.

If he looks up any time soon, Kurt will never know.

His leg muscles burn and the cold air whips cruelly at his cheekbones as he runs.

He runs until he's back at the café, their café, but he can't stop now. He has to keep running.

Because he was wrong.

He was wrong and Isabelle was right.

In theory sure, he was more than willing to understand Blaine and everything his job entailed. But not in practice, no.

Kurt's not ready for the in practice bit. The genuine sex for the genuine money, because most men don't hand out ten dollar bills to hungry boys without expecting something in return.

Blaine is a prostitute. There's nothing fucking well boyish about him.

Kurt never thought it would hurt so much to realise it.

Blaine is a whore.

Kurt had thought he could accept that.

Now he's not so sure.


	6. Whore

 

Yours Is the Skin of the Mysterious _  
_

_I've paid my whore. I owe you nothing. And you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love._

_~ Moulin Rouge, Christian_

**Chapter Five**

**  
**

"Where were you yesterday?"

Kurt hopes to high hell that his face remains neutral. They haven't even said hello yet, just nodded and hurried into the café, desperate for its meagre warmth, meagre coffee, perhaps a meagre biscuit.

"There was an emergency with my roommate," his mouth spins the tale, a panicking spider with no care for the delicacy of its web. "And I didn't have any way of contacting you. I'm so sorry. By the time she'd, uh, calmed down it was so late, I knew you'd have gone."

He hopes Blaine buys it, but the shame clawing its way out of his very skin wants the shorter boy to call him out on his bullshit. Because surely, surely Blaine knows that's what it is.

"Oh, right," Blaine says. "It's just I was kind of late, and I thought maybe you'd waited and left. I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten about you."

"Same here!" Kurt leaps at the chance to express genuine affection for the boy. _Genuine so genuine please believe it's genuine, because it is, it is genuine._ "I felt awful, that you might have thought I wasn't thinking of you."

Which is at least the very basic truth Kurt can offer.

_Because you did think of him, didn't you Kurt? You did think of him. You thought of him on his knees, sweaty and dirty, welcoming every man that crosses his path, his legs spread and his mouth open._

"Yeah, the no phone thing is kind of annoying."

They've addressed it once before already, Blaine's lack of communication methods. Kurt hadn't pressed too far, was unwilling to force a clearly uncomfortable Blaine into admitting he simply couldn't afford one.

"Is your roommate ok?" Blaine asks after a moment of silence. There haven't been many of those between them before.

It's unsettling.

Blaine can feel his toes curling as he listens to Kurt rattle off a _boy trouble_ explanation. He really wants to believe Kurt, because why would Kurt lie?

He also really wants Kurt to look him directly in the eyes, something he hasn't done yet tonight.

Blaine knows being a high school dropout exempts him from the Einstein Club, but he likes to think of himself as smart. Smart with at least enough human intuition to notice that something has changed between himself and Kurt since the last time they spoke.

Kurt's skittish and uneasy and Blaine doesn't like it one bit, because somewhere between adequate coffee with conversation that more than makes up for it, he's grown fond of these meetings. More than fond of them.

More enough to know they'd be sorely missed if they were to stop happening.

Blaine's met plenty of people that don't look him straight in the face. He's had sexwith people who can't look him straight in the face many a time.

But Kurt's never seemed to have a problem with that, and the coffee tastes a lot bitterer than usual as he ponders that ever nagging _why?_

He can hear Kurt talking, but he can't listen. Not yet. Just in case it's an excuse. Another shit excuse like _roommate boy troubles_.

"Blaine? Blaine, are you listening to me? Blaine?"

_Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut-_

"What? Yes. Sure. Don't worry about last night. I understand."

The two way street of distrust brings a frown to Kurt's brow.

Blaine ignores it.

And if the stinted conversation is a little less fruitful than before, they ignore that, too.

.

.

It remains ignored, the swollen pregnancy of their newfound awkwardness. The blunt brick wall of boundary after brick wall of boundary that comes between them, childhood and adulthood and jobs and social classes and life aspirations.

They are the same, but they are not.

They are just boys. Babes fumbling blindly in the dark, waiting for a light to guide them.

But the light doesn't come.

"How was your day at the office, honey?"

Blaine's taken to winking and grinning when Kurt approaches. He's started to take sadistic delight out of watching Kurt bristle and cringe. He's started to take masochistic delight out of the painful twinge feels at the rejection of Kurt's stuttered change of subject.

They rut their way through every exhausted conversation topic. Ohio, Kurt's job, Harry Potter, the _weather._

They've cruised their friendship through and through and now it's like they're strangers all over again.

Except for one day, when Kurt catches Blaine unawares. He approaches silently, surprised that Blaine, rather than staring up the street to watch him, is staring hard and long at a postcard in his hands.

He glimpses Ohio tourism on the front and hasty, spidery handwriting on the back before it's stuffed out of sight.

He considers letting it go, but then Blaine's lips open and curve to form that god damned question, and he decides no, it's his turn to ask the unaskable question.

"What's that then?"

And Blaine, taken aback by Kurt's quick curiosity, clamps his mouth shut and jerks his neck muscles to twitch his head away, eyes ducking down.

"Postcard."

"Who from?"

"A friend."

"Back in Ohio?"

"Yes."

"Is it-"

"It doesn't matter."

Short and, well, not sweet. As bitter as the coffee they drink inside the café, actually, but Kurt feels like he's treading on toes as he continually glances at Blaine's pocket where he knows the postcard is currently crushed.

They exhaust their topics. Ohio, Kurt's job, Harry Potter, the weather.

To Kurt's utter astonishment (to _Blaine_ 's utter astonishment) Blaine breaks another silence.

"It's from a friend back in Ohio. The postcard."

"Oh?" Kurt asks delicately, hopes to fuck his facial features are arranged in an expression that only mildly conveys the burning intrigue that's running rampant around his brain.

When Blaine simply nods, Kurt braves another question.

"What's their name?"

Blaine's eyes are hardened honey as they stare with a hurtful measure of distrust for a few moments before he licks his lips hesitantly.

"Sebastian. He was going to come with me to, uh, here, but he decided to stay for a while."

"Oh, I see," Kurt really hopes Blaine doesn't detect the flares of humiliating emotions that gurgle in his guts.

Interest, fear, envy, _jealousy._

Kurt reigns in the big green monster with some difficulty.

"Does he write often?"

"Every week," Blaine admits, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and tapping his coffee cup against the café table with the other. "I don't…I don't reply, though."

"Why not?" Kurt asks.

If nothing else, he's impressed with this Sebastian's enduring commitment. Kurt's not sure he'd have the strength to continue to write to anyone without the promise of a reply, or at least an acknowledgement that his letters had been received.

"There's nothing to say to him," Blaine shrugs.

Kurt doesn't have a proper reply to that, and every question sounds insensitive even inside his own head.

For a flamboyant gay boy who survived high school in small town Ohio, Kurt feels as if he's dishonouring his younger self by all this running away the way he keeps doing around Blaine. But really, does he have any other choice?

"Well it must be nice to hear from a friend, being out here on your own."

It's presumptuous and dangerous, but apparently true. Blaine really does seem to be on his own. Until a smile quirks his lips. Not a grin or a leer or a smirk, but a smile.

"I'm not on my own," he says softly, softer maybe than Kurt has ever heard him, and Kurt can only blush and return that lovely, lovely smile with one of his own.

Two hands twitch almost in unison, and for a split second it looks as if they're going to grasp hands across the table, a physical acknowledgement of Blaine's words. But then Kurt scratches the bridge of his nose and Blaine rubs at his coffee stained lips.

The moment is gone, and Kurt's pretty sure they touched on something very special, and that maybe things can get better from here.

They don't.

Will they ever?

.

.

The New York Academy of Dramatic Arts, it seems, has only increased Rachel Berry's love of ballads. She belts them with enough force to make the microphone seem pretty useless, reaching out to every attendee of the karaoke night with voice and eyes alike.

"She's incredible, isn't she?"

Kurt turns his head away from his best friend where she's dominating the stage despite her petite frame, looks over Brody's profile and thinks maybe, just maybe, he's at least better than Jesse St James. Perhaps not in hairstyle, but in personality, and that's what matters.

"She is," Kurt sighs.

He refrains from pointing out that Rachel is just that bit more incredible thanks to the makeover that he, Kurt Hummel, provided thank you very much.

"I'm sorry," Brody smiles sheepishly around his bottle of beer, tipping it towards Kurt's diet coke. "I'm gushing again, aren't I?"

"Feel free to gush to your heart's content, Mr Whippy," Kurt rolls his eyes and turns back to the stage just in time to watch Rachel's winning smile melt into a teary mess of heartbreak for the second verse.

His standard _I'm alone_ bitterness doesn't have the capacity to hold it against Brody tonight. He can't begrudge Rachel an adoring boyfriend, just because Kurt can't find one for himself.

"You should bring someone along next time, Kurt," Brody nudges him a little too strongly with an elbow, and the splatter of fizzy liquid that splashes on the floor misses Kurt's crème skinnies by a mere inch or _half._

Kurt's not entirely sure whether his splutter is at Brody's action or his suggestion.

"Rachel said something about some guy," Brody asked slowly, cautiously, clearly hoping that if he presses on he'll successfully avoid a lecture on the dangers of spilling drinks on designer clothing, "Or was she just making stuff up?"

Kurt really wishes he could pause to enjoy the simple pleasure of a decidedly heterosexual man asking him about his interest in a guy without cringing or pulling an awkward face. But he can't, because he's abruptly contemplating stalking onto the karaoke stage and strangling his best friend until she's cold and blue even as her many doting fans watch.

"W-What? No, there's uh, no-one. There's no-one."

Brody smiles secretively, shrugs innocently and lets a small laugh wash through his upturned lips.

"If you say so," he winks playfully at Kurt who, red in the face, coughs and chokes in embarrassment, gulps down more diet coke and almost spits it all over himself.

"Seriously, Brody, please let's just, drop it? Ok?"

"Okay," Brody's definitely laughing this time.

"What's so funny?"

"Just wondering what's wrong with him, that's all."

"Excuse me? What's _wrong_ with him?"

"Kurt, you've got to be embarrassed for a reason. My guess is he's way too old, kind of too young, or has a really obvious visual defect. I'm thinking wart on the nose."

Brody appears to be enjoying Kurt's red cheeks, because his smile continues to grow.

Kurt, on the other hand, is scandalised.

 _"Brody!_ Stop it, it's not funny."

"Oh god, it's a wart on the nose and one on the chin, isn't it?"

"Brody Weston, you shut your mouth right now!"

"Kurt, calm down!" Brody's still laughing, but he looks less amused now. He clearly hadn't expected to evoke any reaction beyond a bit of blushing and maybe a slap on the arm. "I was only teasing."

"Well, don't," Kurt sniffs, and as he turns away Brody can see the soft bar lights glinting in the wet shine of the younger boy's eyes.

Brody shifts, drops his bottle onto the table with a _clunk_ and reaches to place a flat palm on the table halfway between himself and Kurt, who eyes it warily.

"Kurt, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, um, upset you."

In all honesty he's not entirely sure what he's done, but apologies always help, and Kurt seems to accept it with some semblance of grace.

"Thank you, I just, uh. Yeah. Sensitive subject."

"Well, jokes aside you can talk to me if you like. Can't say I'm an expert on relationships but I think I've had enough to understand what you're going through."

Kurt's nauseous laugh confuses Brody. He can't quite separate the cynicism from whatever else Kurt seems to be feeling. He's always hated trying to read people.

What's happened to the art of conversation? Fucking communication?

"I can't…no," Kurt changes his mind, and Brody can see it happen in his face. The almost opening of emotion, before closing tight as a frozen flower bud.

"Whatever you want, Kurt. Talking can be good, though, alright? And I'm…I'm not your family, or your best friend. I'm just, well, Brody."

Kurt tries his best to look appreciative.

"Have you ever been friends with someone, but you don't really know them well enough to be completely open with them, but you really want to be? Even if it is…miles beyond the line of inappropriate to even really be their friend at all."

"Uh, the first bit, sure. Can't say I really know what you mean about it being inappropriate."

 _Of course not_ , is all Kurt can think, because it's highly unlikely that Brody Weston has ever been friends with a prostitute.

Then again, Kurt can barely imagine himself being friends with a prostitute.

And maybe that's the problem. He keeps _forgetting._

Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

"I made this friend a while ago. Over a month ago. But he's, uh. It's complicated."

Brody smiles as innocently as possible. He hasn't really had many interactions with Kurt without Rachel there to bridge the gap, but the impression he has is of a boy with whom one must steal windows of opportunity, and never push too hard.

Gosh, he hates reading people.

"He's a prostitute."

It's closer to one word than three, but Brody catches it, and his eyebrows get lost somewhere in his hairline.

"And no, I never…we never…you know. Just friends."

Brody sits back in his chair.

"I see." _He really doesn't._

"And I care about him a lot, but the closer we get the more I kind of want to, you know, talk to him. But this thing, his job just makes me think I shouldn't."

Brody feels as if it's his turn to talk, but he's out of words. Perhaps the art of conversation, fucking communication, should stay dead after all.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dump that on you. But I can't tell Rachel, because she would _freak._ And my brother would just be, uh, ew, no. And my dad, uh I can't tell my dad. And-"

"Kurt, Kurt, Kurt! I get it. Really. I understand. Don't worry. I told you I was fine with you talking about whatever, didn't I?"

Of course, he made no promises about offering solutions, and for that he's eternally grateful because how is he ever supposed to help the kid with this one?

His head just isn't flexible enough to wrap around this.

So when Kurt's wide eyes just keep on staring, he starts to think maybe he should ignore his moral conscience and go back to not caring about other people's problems.

"Well, that's, uh. I can see why you're stuck."

"Ha, don't worry, Brody, I'm not expecting you to wave a magic wand and fix my life."

Brody's pretty sure he shouldn't let out a deep sigh of relief, but he just can't hold it in.

"I just needed to tell someone."

"Well, you did," Brody smiles and shrugs. "Do you know what you're going to do yet?"

"I have no idea," Kurt groans, raising his hands in the air to clap along with the rest of the bar as Rachel curtsies and blows several kisses before thanking the pianist and waltzing back towards their table.

He's not sure, and maybe it's just his delirious desperation imitating voices in his head, but before Rachel can reach them and pull her boyfriend into a deep, unnecessary but unavoidable kiss, he's sure he hears Brody mutter under his breath.

_Just tell him before it's too late, maybe?_

And really, what can Kurt possibly have to lose?

.

.

Kurt wants to think of himself as a chance taker. That seize the moment guy in a romantic comedy who has a lot of hard luck but the audience knows will be happy in the end, and all he needs is enough chances being taken to get there.

Kurt wants to think of himself that way.

But three meetings later he hasn't breathed a word of any substance to this curly haired boy with the angelic eyes and the devilish mouth. The words linger on his tongue but he always swallows them back down with a large gulp of coffee.

Because what if?

And if Blaine notices Kurt's hesitation to talk, he doesn't mention it, and Kurt is glad.

Until a cold Friday night. It won't be long before they're fully thrust into the throes of winter, and for some reason it feels as if were Kurt to wait until New York is snowy and Christmassy, it'll be too late.

He wants to think of himself as a chance taker so badly, but when he finally does it feels alien and wrong, and he regrets it before he can even really say it.

"Blaine, I have to tell you something."

They've left the confines of the café, and it's almost time for them to part.

"Oh?" Blaine asks playfully, waggles his eyebrows and Kurt brushes over it because he's already losing his nerve.

"I like you."

And there it is: words between them, light shed and realisations dawning and the ball is completely, utterly, totally in Blaine's court now.

Kurt's never felt more out of control, and his terror must show on his face, because a second after the confusion twists Blaine's expression, worry replaces it.

"I see."

Blaine's hesitation, however slight, is not encouraging. Kurt wonders maybe if he wishes hard enough he'll learn to apparate within the next three seconds.

"I just. It's just. I had to tell you. Because things have felt kind of weird lately. And I wanted you to know."

"That you like me?" Blaine asks softly, teasingly, and if Kurt tries really hard he can look past those glittering hazel bedroom eyes.

"Yes."

"Well, I like you too," Blaine says simply, and Kurt feels his lips part to let out an uneven breath.

"You…you do?"

Blaine nods slowly, bites his lip softly.

Roots spring out of the pavement and lock around Kurt's feet, holding him tightly in place. Or maybe that's just his own panic as Blaine takes that tiny step towards him, and suddenly they're sharing personal spaces that Kurt thinks he should be uncomfortable with, but isn't.

He can smell Blaine's coffee and Blaine's cigarettes and Blaine's skin.

Shy as a schoolboy but with an experienced glint in his eye Blaine leans slightly, ever so slightly, and a moment after Kurt sucks in a cold breath the gap is closed.

The gap is closed and Kurt can't breathe because this wasn't what was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be an exchange of words like always, not kisses, but Blaine is warm and the night is cold and Blaine's lips are dry but his tongue is wet and to _fuck_ if Kurt's going to pull away by choice.

Time passes. Maybe a minute, maybe less.

They part as if by simultaneous decision.

But even as Kurt closes his eyes and clears his head with a little shake he shivers at Blaine's lips trailing down the column of his neck. His fists clench and unclench at his sides as Blaine tickles his fingers gently over Kurt's abdomen, muscles contracting and frame twitching with pleasured anticipation.

"Blaine," Kurt whispers, speaks air into the night.

"Yes?" Blaine replies into Kurt's jaw.

"We need to…I wanted to…"

"I know what you want."

Kurt can feel Blaine's smile against his skin, fingers pressing harder and gripping him tighter and he still can't move, just in case he wakes up cold and alone.

"Blaine," Kurt shakes his head a little, because the kisses are growing more and more insistent, and it's been so long, and it's hard to think straight when his jeans are tightening and he's-

"Don't worry, sweetcheeks," Blaine whispers, and why, why is he using his gravelled, husky voice now? The one that makes him sound like a cheap whore- "You did already prepay ten bucks, remember? And I'm more than willing to discount a-"

"Blaine!" Kurt wrestle's under Blaine's solid trance and strong hands. "No, I don't-"

"Don't want me?" Blaine's laugh stiffens Kurt's spine and sends a fearful shiver down his arms. "Yes, you do, Kurt." His hot lips brush the cold shell of Kurt's ear as he whispers. "And you can have me. Think of it as an early Christmas present."

But that's not what Kurt wants. It's as if Blaine can't hear Kurt's shaking words, or feel his shaking protests.

"I've got time," Blaine promises in a coarse voice. "I'm sure I can _squeeze_ you in."

Kurt doesn't mean to push so hard, but one moment Blaine's pressed against him and the next he's on the cold, hard ground, sprawled from the force of Kurt's rejecting hands. In two seconds at most they backtrack to the night they met.

But this time Kurt doesn't feel guilty. Not as tears well in his eyes and he realises he was wrong again.

He had so _much_ to lose. And now, now it's gone.

Blaine's staring up at him, his angel's eyes opening even wider than his devil's mouth, and he begins to push himself upwards, but stops when Kurt speaks.

"No, Blaine. That's not what I…I thought you…"

He doesn't try to hide the tears as they spill down his freezing cheeks. He doesn't even attempt to hold in the sob that wrenches from his throat.

"I can't do this," Kurt shouts, pointing an accusing finger at Blaine's face, hating the way the boy has the gall to look fucking _confused,_ as if he doesn't know what he's done wrong. "I thought the reason I couldn't pay for you was because I could never have enough dollars in my bank account for what you're worth."

Blaine opens his mouth but Kurt isn't finished, because this wasn't how it was supposed to go.

"I was wrong," he hates himself even as he spits it. And Blaine lies on the ground and takes it, because he's a fucking good boy. "You're not worth _anything,_ Blaine. You're not worth my feelings, and you're not worth my heart."

He turns and runs, because he can't take back that kiss but worse, he can't take back those words. And he doesn't know where they come from, and if he stays he'll have to try and explain, and how can he?

How does he explain the hate he has shouted, when all he feels is hurt? So much hurt and so much of something else akin to love, but not quite. A cocktail of _like_ and _admiration_ and _respect_ that Kurt has been drunk on for weeks, but now it's poison in his blood, pumping all the way to his heart.

When he reaches the end of the street he turns back.

The pavement is shining with old rainwater, and the night is growing ever darker. Blaine lies on the ground and watches him leave, no protestations and no apologies and no anger.

He doesn't make a sound even as Kurt disappears from sight.

He's silent, obedient, the way only a good boy can be.


	7. Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this doesn't move everything at too fast a pace...thanks to everyone who's left kudos and comments, I'm so thrilled!

 

Yours Is the Skin of the Mysterious

_How would you like living with me? You feel good right here, so that's where you should be._

_~ Chris, Miss Saigon_

**Chapter Six**

 

If Rachel asks questions, he doesn't notice them. And if Isabelle eyes him warily when he turns up to work on Monday a little paler than usual, he doesn't notice that, either.

He swans through three working days because there's not really anything else he can do.

His evenings are suddenly a lot longer. Longer and, of course, _emptier._

What a god damn cliché.

" _Kurt, is something bothering you?_ "

"What? Of course not. Why would you think that?"

Kurt hears his father sigh deeply, and even over the phone he knows exactly what face Burt Hummel is pulling.

" _Your third phone call in three days, Kurt. You didn't call this much in your very first week in New York._ "

Kurt pulls at a thread in his comforter and wraps it tighter around himself. Rachel's stayed late at the studio to work on a routine with Brody in another vain attempt to impress Miss July, and in too self pitying a mood he can't bring himself to turn the heating up in the chilly, dark apartment.

"I just really miss you, dad."

" _I miss you too, buddy,_ " Burt replies in a tender, fatherly voice that Kurt hasn't heard in years. " _Are you sure there's nothing going on I need to know about?_ "

"No," Kurt sniffs. He'd known the moment he dialled his father's number that it was going to be a tearful night, but he's been putting it off for as long as possible. "I just…I just…"

" _Kurt, come on, kiddo. It's me. You can tell me anything._ "

Apparently wearing a stolen Buckeyes jumper isn't enough to make Kurt feel like he's being hugged by his father from over five hundred miles away.

"I did something stupid, dad," Kurt admits, pressing the soft cover into his lips and muffling his hard breaths.

" _Oh?_ " is all Burt says, because Kurt's done a lot of stupid things over the years, and it pains him to think of his little boy over in another state troubling himself and feeling alone.

"I made friends with someone I shouldn't have. And then I started to, you know. I started to _like_ him. But everything just went wrong, and I don't know what to d-"

A loud ringing interrupts, and Kurt silences mid-syllable.

" _Kurt?_ " Burt's voice suddenly seems as far away as his physical presence. Because Rachel definitely has her key, and Brody is definitely with Rachel, and there is _definitely_ no-one else who should be coming a-knocking at this time.

"Just a minute," he mumbles absently, reluctantly extracting himself from his bed and padding in slippered feet to the front door. "He-llo?" he asks tentatively into the speaker, but there's no reply, only a second buzzing.

" _Kurt, what's going on?_ " Burt is demanding.

"Just a second," Kurt insists, frowning.

His dilemma as to whether or not to make the sort of idiotic mistake that commences all of the worst horror stories of the modern age is tipped in favour of the stupid decision by a burning curiosity, a desire: a _hope._

A burning hope that it might be the one person who it's probably least likely to be.

Burt's voice is still blaring, tinny and small out of Kurt's phone as he patters quick and light down the stairs towards the front door, which he buzzes open before stepping out into the cold, all too late lamenting not grabbing his coat first.

For a second they stare at each other, before Kurt presses his phone to his face, mutters _Dad? I'll call you back later ok? I love you,_ and hangs up.

With Burt's rattling voice silenced, only the traffic interferes.

"Blaine," Kurt caves after a moment. He hugs his torso and stamps his feet a couple of times, his breath clouding in front of him. "How did you know…"

"Would it sound too creepy if I said I followed you from your work?" Blaine shifts awkwardly on his feet.

"Have you been outside all this time?" is all Kurt can think to say, taking in the bright pink tip of Blaine's nose, his red fingers and glowing cheeks and ratty jacket over his usual tank shirt.

"I didn't know whether I should…" Blaine's gaze doesn't move from Kurt's face, even as Kurt looks pointedly away for a moment in discomfort. "Because you weren't at the café, and I didn't know if that meant you didn't want to see me anymore. But you said you liked me. But then you changed your mind-"

"No, Blaine!" Kurt snaps, squeezing his stiffening fingers into his damn Buckeyes jumper, and all he can hope is that nobody from work just happens, by the fates of humiliation, to be in the area and see him so underdressed. "I didn't change my…that wasn't-"

"Actually, you did," Blaine frowns, his eyelids squinting together and his lips pressing outwards in a pout of petulance that looks so so ready to just be kissed away, like every other problem that's come between them.

"Look, can we talk about this?" Kurt implores, and he'd probably get on his knees and beg if he didn't think Blaine might misconstrue _that,_ too, and isn't that a horrid thought? "Why don't you come inside, and we can-"

"No, I have to go," Blaine dismisses, crossing his arms and leaning slightly into one hip, and Kurt would make a snippy comment about sassy attitudes if only it was the right time.

"Then maybe later? We could-"

"If by later you mean about five in the morning."

Kurt decides Blaine doesn't suit this cold, aloof manner he's adopted. Maybe it's his armour, _another_ one ingrained to shield him when his first mask, _the seducer_ , fails, as it has done so spectacularly where Kurt is concerned.

"Then later this week? I don't know when-"

"I can come by on Sunday night."

The offer comes with a laboured sigh. Blaine has never sounded outright _bored_ by Kurt's presence before now, and it pains him to admit it hurts more than it probably should.

"Ok," Kurt replies as brightly as he can manage. "About the same time? Just buzz and you can come up, and we can talk and have actual coffee for once, instead of the sewage we usually drink."

He tries to coax a smile from Blaine, but at most it's a twitch of the lips. Even then, it could as easily be a grimace as a grin.

"Fine," Blaine stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and smacks his lips together. "On Sunday, then."

"Yeah, see you Sunday!" Kurt calls after Blaine's back as he saunters casually down the street.

He watches even as the cold stings his bare skin and seeps into his bones. He watches despite how embarrassing the thought of wearing a football shirt _outside_ really should be. He watches in spite of the warm blankets and hot cocoa he knows is waiting for him back up in his apartment.

But he turns away when a car eases to a halt at the curb beside Blaine, and a welcoming door opens to let him slip inside.

.

.

While each individual day drags like the first moon of monsoon rains, the week itself seems to flash bright and fast as the lightning of a vast and powerful storm. With every day that brings Sunday evening closer, Kurt finds sleep more and more elusive. And when he awakes on the morning of the day itself his eyes snap open and his breath catches in his chest before he can really remember why.

"What are you so worried about, babycakes?" Joel brushes aside Kurt's anxieties with a latex gloved hand as he prepares a batch of side order focaccias that Kurt really hopes will bake quickly enough for him to sample before he leaves.

He's leaning over the counter of Mellan's Diner with all the finesse of a sulking hound, complete with tail between the legs and sad, drooping eyes that have so far made no impact on his friend beyond a few snickers and the occasional impatient huff.

Not that Kurt had expected sympathy from Joel Parkinson, of course. Far from it.

What he really needs is a distraction, and Joel is that if nothing else.

"I'm meeting with someone tonight who I, uh, I had this argument with."

"Oh?"

"I'm just nervous."

Joel eyes him dubiously, the effect ruined ever so slightly when he has to blow a strand of dark blond hair off his forehead.

"Tell Uncle Parky," he says firmly, turning away only to smile and wave goodbye as a small group of young women leave the diner with loud, enthusiastic chorus of _Bye Joel!_

The moment the door shuts behind them, however, his eyes return to Kurt expectantly.

"Ok, say you meet a girl who's, um, _really forward_ ," Kurt blushes even as he says it, and he can't bear to look up from the pots of dips in the glass display of the counter, knowing full well what he'd find were he to look up at Joel's face. "But you didn't, uh, didn't want to just, you know, jump into bed with her."

Joel's snort of disbelief is discouraging, and Kurt throws him a pleading look. The older man imitates zipping his lips closed innocently, even as he grins, pure condescension glittering in his bright blue eyes.

"And she doesn't realise that you, err, like her for _her,_ not just the, um, you know-"

"The sex?" Joel's voice is loud and Kurt immediately casts a wary eye around the diner to make sure none of the five or six remaining customers sitting innocently at their tables have overheard. He suspects the man and woman sitting closest as they smirk around their identical sandwiches and lemon cokes, but he can only hope for the best and ignore them.

"Yes, _that,"_ Kurt flusters.

"Oh Christ," Joel cackles as he rolls more dried rosemary into the dough beneath his kneading hands. "I can't tell if it's prudish or cute."

"Joel, I'm serious," Kurt begs, wondering if there is a potential danger that his ears will literally melt off his skull if he blushes for much longer. "How would you get her to understand?"

"Uh, _tell_ her?" Joel rolls his eyes. His _I'm With Stupid_ expression remains unappreciated by a frantic Kurt.

"What if she doesn't understand, though?"

"That you want more than just sex? Why, what is she, a can-can dancer?"

Joel chortles heartily at his own joke, but cuts himself short when Kurt's guilty expression doesn't share his amusement.

 _"Kurtie,"_ Joel breathes, and is that _pride_ in his eyes? "What on _earth_ have you been up to, you naughty boy?"

"Stop it, Joel. It's not like that." Joel's usually innocent hum, as is so often heard when he's working behind the counter, begins to sound ominously similar to sex on the beach. Kurt never did like T-Spoon. "No, I'm done here."

Kurt slides off the bar stool, drops a ten dollar bill onto his empty plate, and reaches down to grab his bag.

"No, Kurt. Oh come on, learn to take a joke, babycakes."

"It's not a joke, Joel. You're not listening to me."

"Sure I am," Joel smiles, waving a white tea towel of surrender in the air. "Look, you don't have to tell me anything if you'd rather not." He refrains from pointing out how very obvious it is that Kurt would rather eat his own arm than tell him anything more. "But whatever's going on, I know you, Kurt. You're good with words – not necessarily always _nice-"_

They share a smile, and Joel almost seems to wince in phantom pain at the verbal whipping he had received from Kurt on the day they'd met, when wrong orders had been made and served and a full fat coke had been offered despite the firm demand of _diet or nothing_.

"-but I think you'reputting too much thought into this. You're overworking yourself and it's just going to stress you out. So sit tight, let me roll these out and throw them in the oven, and then I'll make you up a Parky Special on the house. You'll stay here for the afternoon, we'll go back to mine for a while so you can gush over dresses with Shelly again, and only once a suitable waiting time is reached will you go home. How about that?"

Kurt smiles weakly, gratefully, _adoringly._

"That sounds amazing."

.

.

The sky darkens to gift the vampires and bring Kurt's nerves to a frazzled state of electric wiring.

He cleans the apartment, shoos Rachel out the door insisting that of _course_ he doesn't mind her having a last minute date with Brody, texts Brody to thank him for the umpteenth time for providing a distraction to get Rachel out of the way, cleans the apartment, has a coffee that will no doubt do wonders for his already overexerted adrenaline, calls Joel to remind him not to wear the orange shirt on his date with Shelly tonight, cleans the apartment, and then cleans a bit more for good measure.

Kurt has a vivid memory of his mother screeching high hell to his father, a duster in her hand, her hair pinned up out of the way and drawn back with a scarf, her best dress on and her feet sliding around in slippers.

He remembers it as the year his maternal grandparents came over for Thanksgiving dinner.

He thinks that maybe, were she alive, he would have been able to call his mother and ask for stress-cleaning advice because there's no way he picked up the habit from his father.

At eight thirty-seven the buzzing of the front door bell interrupts him as he organises the immaculate cutlery in its pristine drawers.

He pauses only long enough to chirp a far too bright and bubbly (and really, only-dog-friendly) _Hi, come on up!_ into the speaker, and then returns to inspect the living room one last time.

He wonders if he's just completely out of it, or if Blaine's found himself a teleport, because his knock on the door seems instantaneous.

When the door opens, they stare as two wary predators for a more than a moment, less than two. An infinitely short space of time that begins and ends and three lives of the sun pass between.

"Hey there, come on in," Kurt smiles as he slides the door shut. Blaine walks in shyly, shoulders curled just a little into himself, and Kurt wonders if it's residual protection from the cold outside, or an instinctive armour to keep him at arm's length.

If it is, it works, because Kurt ushers him to a kitchen table seat without any deliberate approach.

Blaine watches him with wide, rabbit eyes.

"Coffee?"

"Sure."

"Cream, sugar? We might even have some cinnamon or something around here somewhere."

"No thank you."

"Ok. Is it still as cold outside?"

"A bit better than yesterday."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

 _Death by small talk._ Kurt wonders if it'll look good on his post-mortem report.

He stirs the bitter black coffee into a generous sized mug that Blaine clearly tries not to be shocked by, then perches lightly on a chair opposite the smaller boy.

"You can take off your jacket, you know."

It's only once the jacket it hanging on the back of Blaine's chair that Kurt realises just how much extra caramel skin is now on display, glowing softer than ever in the gentle lights of apartment. He's so used to dark orange streetlamp glares and the wash out fluorescent lights of the café that he hadn't thought to wonder what Blaine looks like in the real world.

He admonishes himself for his prejudice, but there it is again, a thought put out there to torment him even as he watches Blaine's eyes wander the walls of the kitchen with the amazement of a child in Santa's Grotto.

Kurt tries to imagine whether or not Blaine ever went to Santa's Grotto as a child. He tries to imagine Blaine as a child at all.

_I'll blow you for twenty._

_Swallow it…good boy._

_I can squeeze you in._

Why does it feel like Blaine was never really a child?

"So," Blaine clears his throat, and Kurt startles, turning back to Blaine and hoping the guilt of where his thoughts have wondered to doesn't show in his face.

"I'm sorry for what I said to you, Blaine."

Kurt doesn't like the way Blaine is surprised by his apology, as if it was the last thing he'd expected.

"I said, I said _awful_ things to you that night and I didn't mean them. I was just angry and upset, and I took it out on you instead of explaining-"

"Kurt, it's ok. It's doesn't matter-"

"Yes, Blaine, yes it does matter!" It's probably not the best idea to raise his voice, but Blaine's resolved expression grates at Kurt's bones, less bearable than nails on a chalkboard. "I said you were…I said you weren't worth…Blaine, I was awful."

"Kurt," Blaine's smile is complacent, simple. Kurt wants to smack it off his face with the back of his palm. "I once had a guy give me a fifty dollar tip on top of what he paid me. I know exactly how much I'm-"

"Blaine," Kurt chokes and how embarrassing, his eyes are stinging, and coffee slops over the edge of his mug and runs hot and creamy down his fingers as he slams it on the table. "You can't just live your life-"

He stops when Blaine delicately places his own cup on the table, reaches over and takes Kurt's wrist in his hand. Kurt can feel his breath contract tight in his chest as his arm is pulled slowly over the table.

And he knows he should stop it, he does he does he does, but instead he watches as Blaine's tongue wipes trails of rapidly cooling coffee from Kurt's fingers one by one.

"Blaine," he whispers as the boy attentively laps at his middle finger. "Blaine, stop."

But it's weak, and even Blaine can hear its lack of conviction.

Kurt swallows hard and loud to no effect, his eyes unseeing but for that wet pink muscle as it works its way between his middle and ring finger, and it's only then that he notices Blaine is watching him with wide staring eyes, gauging his reaction and acting accordingly.

Those wide rabbit eyes of brown speckling gold, and black, black, black.

"Blaine…" It's no more than a breath of air as Blaine licks a long stripe of Kurt's pinky, leaves a soft, playful bite to its tip, and then lets go.

"All clean," Blaine grins lewdly, but his voice is happy, innocent. _Boyish._

Kurt breathes one, two, and three; blinks once, twice, thrice. He fetches a small cloth and wipes up the offending coffee spill around and under his mug before it can stain, then drops it into the sink in silence.

He reseats himself with as much dignity as he can muster, Blaine watching all the while.

"When I said I liked you," Kurt begins, and he really can't look at Blaine as he cocks his head to the side, curious as a spaniel. "I meant I like you as a person. I think you're a great guy."

"I think you're great, too, Kurt," Blaine reaches over to press his hand to Kurt's, but Kurt wraps his fingers quickly around his coffee cup.

Blaine accepts the rejection too easily, but it's too late for Kurt to take it back now.

"Blaine, I think we have different ideas about how to show our appreciation for a, uh, a great guy."

"You don't want to have sex with me."

Kurt thinks of the impossibility that there will be a _How To_ handbook out there for him to use in this situation. He thinks maybe he'll write one for others who follow in his footsteps if he survives this.

"I want to be your _friend,"_ Kurt insists, to which Blaine laughs.

"Friends are allowed to have sex, too, Kurt. There's not a law-"

 _"Blaine,"_ Kurt growls in warning.

"Kurt, I promise. Having sex does not ruin friendships."

"Did you have sex with Sebastian?"

He's not sure what made him say it, but it leaves his lips before the question can fully form in his head. He cringes, waiting for the inevitable explosion, or perhaps just for Blaine to close up completely all over again.

"Of course I did," Blaine sniggers at this most natural occurrence.

Thinking maybe, possibly, perhaps, just _maybe_ he won't get into trouble if he's pushed this far already, Kurt tries again.

"Was he your boyfriend at the time?"

"I've never had a boyfriend, Kurt."

"Was he your first, though?"

 _"No,"_ Blaine snaps, and the raw nerve that Kurt has struck upon is tangible.

It reverberates through the air like lightning, leaving destruction in its path and lighting up a dark glower in Blaine's face.

"I'm sorry," Kurt cuts in immediately, but Blaine abruptly flushes and looks down at his coffee.

"No, I just…" He sounds almost wistful.

Kurt licks his lips and waits for Blaine to look up again. It takes seventy-eight seconds, but eventually his eyes lift from his cup to Kurt's face. They're hooded with secrets that are bolted shut.

"Blaine," Kurt begins tentatively, but the boy still flinches. "You know when we, uh, when you asked me before if I'd ever had sex?"

"You said you wanted it to be special."

His voice is close to death in its monotony, but the dancing lights in Blaine's eyes have never been more alive.

"Well, I just thought – I wondered – because – um – was it special for you?"

He asks it too quickly, too hurriedly, and he half expects to find himself drenched in hot coffee. But instead Blaine sighs quietly, taps a rhythm onto the handle of his mug. His nod is little more than a wince, but it's there.

"Yes," Blaine speaks as if worried talking too loudly will break the fragile truth. "He was…I was special for him. He told me all the time."

"Well that's what _I_ want," Kurt grabs onto Blaine's emotions and locks them tight in his grip, lest they ebb and flow out of reach once more. "Can you understand that? I want it to be special, with someone special, and with someone who thinks I'm special."

That nod again, defeated and understanding; Blaine smiles his small smile, his _boy_ smile.

"I understand, Kurt. I'm sorry I, uh, misunderstood you."

Kurt shakes his head firmly, although he's not sure Blaine's misty eyes quite see him do it.

"No, don't apologise. Let's just, um, can we just forget about that whole night? I've missed talking to you."

Kurt hopes Blaine's still too distracted to notice the tremor in his words. He swallows that frog down his throat hard and slowly the cat loosens its claws from his tongue.

"And in any case, my roommate's been spending more and more time out with her boyfriend lately. We could make _this_ a better routine." He tips his coffee cup in mock salute, drawing a smile from the smaller boy.

Kurt's chest fills with air and empties in relief at that simple grin.

"I'd like that," Blaine says.

And if he notices that Kurt's only willing to share his apartment so long as his roommate doesn't fine out, well, he doesn't mention it, and neither does Kurt.

"That's good. Me too."

There's something silly about the way they nod in unison. They share a laugh that breaks the thin layer of tension that has frosted between them, and Kurt stands.

"Want to go to the living room? It's much more comfortable."

It is a simple pleasure that flutters delicately in Kurt's stomach when Blaine agrees and they move to sit close-but-not-touching on the sofa. Because it's a breakthrough.

It's minor and there are probably a lot of back-steps that will be taken before they get any further forward, but it's a _breakthrough,_ and doesn't that feel good?

And when Blaine leaves almost two hours later, Kurt feels lighter than he has done in quite some time.

He watches Blaine walking down the street from his window and concedes that maybe, just maybe, _this_ will be enough for him.

It will have to be.


	8. Bad Stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some bitch!Rachel here, but for all Rachel Berry fans DO NOT FEAR - I am a huge fan of Rachel's, and I am not hating on her here. Please have patience! Also, bad language and angst and you know the rest.

 

Yours Is the Skin of the Mysterious

  
_People put you down enough, you start to believe it. The bad stuff is easier to believe. You ever notice that?_ _  
_

_~ Vivan, Pretty Woman_

**Chapter Seven**

**  
**

Life goes on. Not much in the manner of a dream, nor as a Shakespearean plot device which no doubt would involve a lot of dramatic irony and tension, nor even as that inevitable stretch of montage sequences in a romantic comedy in which the two protagonists endure a series of pseudo-amusing yet sad misfortunes as they pine over one another.

No, life just continues.

It continues much like Noah and the Whale had promised it would.

November begins to trickle by with showery winds and thickening frosts. Thanksgiving comes and goes, and Kurt brings Blaine back an Ohio post card of his own to start a Kurt Collection alongside Sebastian's.

He refrains, with quite astounding perseverance and self restraint, from driving out to Westerville in search of a boy called Sebastian before he flies back to New York.

Blaine starts making regular visits to Kurt's apartment, generally according to Brody and Rachel's date nights and rehearsal nights on their weekly schedules.

The coffee is tastier, the couches are comfier, the conversation is easier.

Sometimes they touch upon things Kurt had not dared hope they would even acknowledge.

Kurt tells Blaine about the death of his mother, about the grief that had gripped his father into near silence for almost three years, about how alone he had felt during that time, as if not allowed to mourn his mother for fear of upsetting his father.

Blaine reveals to Kurt his life with his mother in Ohio, and the vague maybe-memories-but-maybe-fantasies of his father and brother, before his father upped and left his adulterous wife and, not having enough money to care for both children, grabbed his eldest son and left post-haste.

Blaine flinches back a little when Kurt's fingers wrap around his hand in silent, apologetic comfort at this, but Kurt persists, and really, holding Kurt's hand for a while isn't that bad at all.

They learn to joke, to tease, to _be._

They are silly and they laugh over the crazy lady who lives next door to Blaine and more often than not mistakes him for a pool boy, even though the closest thing to a pool the building has is the burst water pipe in the basement. Kurt can taunt Blaine and jestingly call him _Juan the Pool Boy_ for a week or so, and it's _funny._ Blaine can tease Kurt by asking lots of questions about the charming Derek at work, and it's _funny._

If it breaks Kurt's heart a little more every time Blaine has to leave, well, that's a price he's decided he can pay.

Until a Tuesday night in early December, when Rachel and Brody are having a Hanukkah date.

Blaine doesn't show.

When half an hour passes without word, Kurt picks up his coat, marches to the front door, opens it, then shuts it again and runs back inside, because half an hour isn't so bad, is it?

One hour, two hours, three, more, more, more.

When Rachel flurries home well after midnight, swishing her skirt and tossing her hair and singing a bizarre mash up of Chanukah, oh Chanukah and O Holy Night, it's to find her best friend sprawled asleep on the couch wearing his coat and shoes, the skin around his eyes rubbed red with crying and tears lingering on his cheeks.

He doesn't even stir when she slips off his shoes and tucks a blanket around him, planting a sticky lip gloss kiss on his forehead that she hopes he'll forgive her for before going to bed herself.

Kurt doesn't see Blaine the next day, or the day after that. By the time Friday night arrives, his fingers are covered in plasters from hole punching and stapling mishaps at work and he's fairly sure his ribs are starting to protrude a little too far out of his chest.

On Friday, at twelve minutes past eight in the evening, the front door bell of the apartment rings.

Rachel looks up from her current favourite book, _Patti LuPone: A Memoir_ , frowning in confusion.

Had Kurt forgotten his key?

She scurries to the speaker by the door.

"Who is it?"

Silence, but for a sharp gasp.

"Hello?"

_"I…I'm looking for Kurt."_

It's definitely a man's voice, but he sounds young and unsure.

"He's not here."

_"Oh, I, oh. Ok. Thank you very-"_

"Are you Blaine?"

She's fairly sure Kurt's forgotten he even told her about a boy called Blaine, but the information was simply too valuable to forget. So it's carefully logged in her memory between Barbra Streisand's birth date and the list of Ms LuPone's performances in chronological order.

She's been waiting for a chance like this.

The voice stutters.

_"Uh – I – did Kurt – did he – I-"_

"He should be home soon. Come on up."

Being a girl with Two Gay Dads, Rachel has of course been raised with the instinctive ability to suss out, understand, and even _fix_ any problems regarding homosexual couples. And this acutely trained radar can easily detect the blindingly obvious link between a stubbornly silent, mopey Kurt for the past few days and a sudden appearance of Blaine.

It's only once she's buzzed him in that she realises she's in her dressing gown.

In record time she's thrown off the bright pink gown ( _But Kurt, it reminds of home, my Two Gay Dads bought it for me and everything, I promise it's the only pink thing from my room I've taken with me_ ) and is just pulling on her casual-but-cool jumper brought back home for her by Kurt from work when there's a quiet, hesitant knock on the door.

She's thinking tall and sophisticated, though with a name like Blane there's definitely a hint of Andrew McCarthy's charming smile and jockish presence about him, maybe even the same sparkly blue eyes and sleek, wavy brown hair.

She runs a hand quickly through her hair, sure that if this man is as special as Kurt seems to think (what with all this damn secrecy, grumbles to herself) she'll want to make the best impression possible.

And, plastering on her most brilliant Tony Award smile she slides the door open.

With Rachel wearing only soft pumps instead of her newly accustomed heels, they seem to be of equal eye line. His skin is of a warm, soft colouring, but the bones beneath are a little hard and jutting around the jaw and cheeks. On his head is a mop of tousled curls, roughly cut and falling only a little short of wide eyes. They're a bright, dark hazel and Rachel can't seem to see anything past their colour.

His clothes are shabby, from his converse to his open jacket.

Her brief onceover is repeated twice.

She can't shake the shiver that runs down her spine, because if anything she's sure he looks a lot like a…

"Who are you?" she demands.

The boy startles at her abrupt aggression.

"Blaine," his voice is still young and unsure. Young and unsure and suspicious.

"Who are you?" she asks again, her hands on her hips and her smile falling into a heavy set frown that feels alien to her bright, sunny face.

 _"Blaine,"_ he repeats, a little firmer in his insistence. "I'm here to see Kurt-"

"You're not Blaine," she snaps, taking a step forward to better block the doorway. The boy's eyebrows rise at her advancement. "I'm warning you, I haze a taser. And my incredibly well trained and muscular boyfriend who will be here any minute has taught me self defence."

The boy lets out a dark laugh. Rachel takes another shaky breath and stands firm.

"I promise you, I'm Blaine. I've been friends with Kurt for a while-"

"Oh really? Well I can assure you that I have been friends with Kurt for a lot longer than you, and I can also _assure_ you that Kurt Hummel would never, _never_ consort with the likes of a…"

She clamps her mouth shut as the boy smiles coldly, sweetly at her.

"A what, sweetheart?" he asks charmingly. He takes a menacing step forwards and her resolve falters, leaning back on her heels.

"Please leave." She's certain he'll latch on to the tremor in her voice, but she can't hide it.

"No, you were saying something." He leans against the doorframe, and the hard lines on his face only accentuate the fiery rage in his eyes.

Her eyes rest on his grazed, bony knuckles, and she feels a phantom pain of what would happen were they to strike her should she push too hard.

"Tell me," he insists, his tongue lazily grazing his lips as he licks at the _l_ and pouts at the _m_.

She takes in his broad shoulders, his dangerous smile, his cocked head. In a desperate bid to regain control she puffs out her chest, breathes through her nose and draws herself up to her full (lacking, lacking, lacking) height.

"You listen to me, _Blaine._ If that's even your real name. _My_ Kurt," Rachel growls, pretending not to notice the flash in those hazel eyes at the possessive term, "is a rising star who will one day be awarded a Tony, probably in the same year I receive my second one, for his graceful and commanding presence on the Broadway Stage.

"And where will you be? You'll be here, begging to be worthy enough to stand in his presence. Do you hear me? Kurt is worth a thousand of you, and if _you're_ what he's been so upset about these past few days then that's a terrible waste of his emotions. The only good thing that will come of having anything to do with you will be the life experience which he will turn into gold star talent for deeper, more heartfelt ballads as he recalls all of the wasted time he's spent thinking of you.

"How _dare_ you take advantage of him. But just because Kurt feels sorry for you, that doesn't mean _I'm_ going to."

Her eyes shine with pride at the thought of her best friend, of the exhaustion and the heartbreak that has plagued him these past few days, and the stars burn too brightly for her to notice Blaine's fingers curl into fists, for his eyes to drop to the ground and for a cynical smile to twitch at his features.

By the time her attention has returned to him, he's sneering at her with more hate than she'd ever thought one pair of eyes could possibly muster.

"Kurt's told me all about his roommate Rachel," he says quietly. She would probably prefer him to shout, though, because now he sounds almost like he wants to cry, though his face looks prepared to kill.

"Oh?" she asks in spite of herself, shaking her hair from her face and planting her hands on her hips.

"His _best_ friend. How she's such a _great_ girl," Blaine scorns. "Maybe next time I'll get the chance to meet her."

He's out of sight before she can collect herself together enough to reply. All she can do is slam the door shut with an echoing bang and hope never to see the horrid boy again.

Blaine, however, stops half way down the stairs.

He could go back up.

It would be so easy.

Bang on the door until she gives in and opens it, and then…

And then? What would he do? Hit her? Hurt her? Break her neck?

Kurt's best friend. His _best friend_. Of course Blaine wasn't going to hurt her.

But she didn't know that, did she? He'd seen how terrified she was of him, had even used it to his advantage. He could run on back up, just to-

_"Blaine?"_

Blaine turns his head back towards the bottom of the steps.

"You're alive, oh god, Blaine, I don't believe it! I've been so-"

Blaine waits only until Kurt is close enough for him to see the tears in those dazzlingly blue eyes before pressing his chin to his chest and running past, slipping out of Kurt's reaching fingers as they make to grasp his arm, hastily rushing outside and down the street.

 _"Blaine!_ Please wait, Blaine where have – please come back, Blaine, I've been so worried – _Blaine!"_

Maybe, just maybe, Blaine slows down enough to make sure Kurt catches up with him.

Maybe.

"There you are, why were you…" Kurt's breathless smile slides like oozing mud off his face as his head swivels back and forth between his friend and the direction of his apartment.

"Rachel's a dear," Blaine says with hard amusement that Kurt winces at.

"Oh Blaine, I'm so – what did she say? I hope it wasn't too awful."

Blaine tries to appreciate that at least Kurt's immediate thought is that Rachel had hurt Blaine, and not the other way around. But then he remembers the fierce rage that had gripped him, pulled his fists to clench until all he wanted to do was lash out and-

"Nothing I haven't heard before," Blaine smiles cheerily, but it's a mistake, he realises, when instead of laughing it comes out as a pseudo-sob that paints his cheeks a darkest red of humiliation.

"Blaine, I'm so sorry. I should've talked to her. I just didn't realise you were…I had no idea what to do. When you didn't show on Tuesday I went out looking for you, but I had no idea where to go. And then I stayed home Wednesday and Thursday hoping you'd turn up anyway. I didn't want – I stayed late at work as a, uh, a distraction. You know. I was so worried."

"I'm sorry," Blaine chokes out as he slowly regains control of his halting breaths.

The pain and self pity that has been growing strong as a Herculean chimera in his chest gives a little, subsides enough to make room for sympathy and guilt and all those ever rejected feelings that prickle coldly at skin and eyes and lips like wet snow and bitter winds.

He wraps his arms tight around himself to keep his ribcage from cleaving in two; he looks down for fear of what he'll find in Kurt's eyes.

"Blaine…" Kurt's voice is reluctant, distant, hesitant, all those fucking negative _ant_ words that twist in Blaine's gut. And of course the golden ticket _ment._

Disappointment.

Kurt is disappointed, and Blaine flinches under admonishment.

_Bad boy, Blaine. Bad boy._

"Blaine, where were you?"

He shrugs; curled so tight he's almost foetal on his feet.

When Kurt takes a step closer, he backs away. Kurt frowns, and cautiously reaches forwards until his fingers curl under the boy's fluttering chin, and with only the lightest of pressure he tilts Blaine's face upwards, until only his eyes remain downcast.

Kurt spreads his fingers out along Blaine's face, until his palm ghosts over a light bruise on the boy's jaw.

" _What happened_?" Kurt demands without warning, and Blaine cowers lightly under his threatening tone. "Hey, no, I didn't-"

" _Get off me_ ," Blaine snaps, and it's Kurt's turn to flinch when Blaine slaps his hand away with a cold smack. "You don't get to – it's not up to – I don't want-"

"Blaine!" Kurt cries as Blaine turns away to continue his stomping march down the street.

Away. Away from Kurt, with his nice apartment and his job at _Vogue-dot-fucking-com_ and his _best friend_.

"Blaine, _please,"_ Kurt jogs lightly after him, not daring approach too closely.

Three streets of shameless chasing. Three streets of _please_ and _come back_ and _Blaine_ and _don't just walk away from me_.

Three streets before Blaine comes to a halt and swivels on his heel, his arms spread wide as angel's wings and his eyes the fires of Hell.

"I don't _need_ you, Kurt!" he bellows, and Kurt, feet stuttering to a stop, doesn't know whether to cry with the hurt or cringe with the humiliation. "I don't need the _hovering_ or the _chasing_ or the _pity parties,_ I am _fi-"_

 _"Pity?"_ Angry anger angered.

_Bad boy, Blaine. God damnit, why are you such a bad boy?_

"I have never pitied you, Blaine. How _dare_ you say that to me? When have I ever given you the impression that I-"

Blaine opens his mouth to spit his retort, but Kurt cuts himself off before he can speak. A wash of something akin to relief loosens the angry muscles in Kurt's face, and his breath exhales in a long, drawn out sigh.

"Did Rachel tell you that?" he asks wearily, and somehow manages to make his question sound more like a statement.

It's easy enough to take Blaine silence, his head turn away from Kurt, as a confirmation.

"She has no idea what she's talking about, Blaine. She was just…I don't know what, but she doesn't know anything. I promise, Blaine, I haven't even really talked to her about you before."

It's only once he says it that he realises it isn't exactly a consolation. It's only once Blaine raises his eyebrows delicately with a cynical grin and a roll of his eyes that he realises how horrible it sounds. But there's not taking it back now, and after all, it's the truth.

He hasn't. And in all honesty he hadn't intended to talk to her about Blaine at all for quite some time.

"I have to go," Blaine smirks, shakes his head, turns his back on Kurt for a third time.

This time Kurt doesn't follow with rapid footsteps.

" _What happened to you_?" he shrieks at those dark, untamed curls.

Five steps after the echo of his shout has faded, Blaine stops. He looks over his shoulder, and under the glare of the lamppost the shadowed bruise on his jaw is lit up, and Kurt can see a faint outline spreading all the way up to Blaine's temple, now.

When he runs towards that face, that bruise, Blaine doesn't welcome him, but he doesn't back away, either. Not even as Kurt curls his hand around the side of Blaine's head, until the heel of his palm is covering the worst of the bruise and his fingers can nestle comfortably around a soft earlobe.

"Got into an argument about a payment," Blaine says softly, bluntly, sadly. Kurt rubs his thumb softly, bluntly, sadly up and down a few inches of Blaine's curly hairline.

There's nothing Kurt can think of to say, but Blaine doesn't appear to expect him to.

So it comes as a shock when Kurt's whisper fills the expected silence.

"Blaine," it's nervous and fretful and Blaine lets Kurt's obvious concern for him wash over him like warm waves of a tropical sea. "I don't know how to, I uh, I mean I was thinking about, because, I-"

"Kurt?" Blaine interrupts, insistent and impatient.

"Do you, uh, _have_ anyone?"

"Do I _have_ anyone?" Blaine's bemusement is coloured with ridicule.

"You know," Kurt blushes and looks at the ground, and Blaine can feel his cheek grow sticky under Kurt's clammy hand, but it remains, hot and heavy and very much _there._ "Looking, um, out for you? Like, um-"

"It's just me," Blaine sounds cold, but surprisingly not angry. Detached and empty.

"Oh," Kurt ends his rambling and gulps.

Luckily _(luckily?)_ Blaine seems amused. He grins and waves a hand under Kurt's blushing face to bring them back to eye level.

"It works better that way."

"Does it?"

"Of course it does," Blaine scoffs, because really, on what knowledge is Kurt basing is doubts?

"You don't have anybody looking out for you, Blaine. Nobody to-"

"I look out for myself," Blaine snaps, jerking his head out of Kurt's grip and there it is again, that gut squirming bruise that fills Kurt's insides with tapeworms.

"I know you do, Blaine, but-"

"And I have you," Blaine winks cheekily.

"Only if you come to me when you need help." Kurt's voice is small and lost as he says it, and there it is again, that guilt that prickles at Blaine's skin. "You know if you'd come over I'd have-"

"I know, and I'm sorry. I promise, next time anything like that happens I'll come straight to you. Alright?"

Kurt would really rather there not be a next time at all, but he'd rather win a small battle now than lose the entire war in one fell swoop.

He nods and fills his chest with cold night air that rattles his bones.

"Ok. That's ok, I guess."

"And anyway, that wasn't-" Blaine shuffles, scuffing a toe over a dent in the pavement that's been worn smooth by a hundred million feet. "That, um, wasn't the only reason I, uh, I mean on _Tuesday_ yeah, but after that…"

Kurt waits patiently, but Blaine's voice tapers into nothingness.

"Did something happen on Wednesday, too, Blaine?"

"I got another postcard from Sebastian."

Not exactly a shock of the century, but Blaine's never really announced it as such before, and it tilts Kurt's head to the side in curiosity as he waits for some other, penny dropping revelation.

"And?" he presses reassuringly after a moment. "What did it say?"

Blaine's eyes search his face desperately, and Kurt begins to dread the news that by now is surely limited to a death or terminal illness.

"He wants to come to New York." Blaine blurts it out in half a second, and Kurt can feel his own facial muscles contract in surprise. Blaine nibbles softly on the chapped skin of his lower lip and waits for a response.

 _"Um-oh,"_ is all Kurt can manage at first. "Well, isn't that good? You can't have seen him for a long time. Don't you want him to?"

"I replied," Blaine admits shyly. "My first reply. I told him yes."

Kurt's smile is small and hopefully not too pained.

"That's great, Blaine. Really, really great," he encourages.

"I called his house from a payphone earlier today. He's coming next weekend."

Kurt doesn't really know what Blaine's wanting him to say anymore, if not encouragements, so he spews a few more and hums awkwardly.

"I want you to meet him."

Kurt can hear the effort in Blaine's voice to make it a casual, nonchalant request that Kurt is free to accept or reject, and it won't matter. But he can tell that it will. He can tell in the tightness around Blaine's eyes and the way his teeth worry at his lips.

"Of course I'll meet him," Kurt smiles freely. "I'd love to!"

They are both equally surprised by his extravagant enthusiasm.

"You will?" Blaine looks so shocked, so hopeful, so goddamn pleased that even as dread rages rainstorms in Kurt's brain he finds himself glad he's put that smile on Blaine's face.

"Of course I will."

Kurt presses a teasing finger to the pink tip of Blaine's nose, and they share a laugh that mingles shyly in the air between them.

"I have to go," Blaine shrugs awkwardly, taking a step back. "But I'll, um, I'll come back tomorrow?"

And what can Kurt do but accept? He clings to these moments like droplets of a waterfall, cold and fresh and elusive.

They will suffice, for now.

"Yes," he nods. "I'll see you tomorrow."


	9. Fall

 

Yours Is the Skin of the Mysterious

_Can't... fall... in love? But, a life without love, that's... terrible..._

_~ Christian, Moulin Rouge_

**Chapter Eight**

He wants to be mad at her.

He wants to hate her _so bad_ , because he can still recall the pain in Blaine's eyes and the way he had trembled and the fear and the hurt and it's _all because of her_.

But he can't. He can't hate her because he loves her so very dearly, even as she expresses her strong and very loud opinions, complete with theatrical hand gestures and the occasional stamping foot.

She cries a little as she talks.

Not big fat crocodile tears. Just a glitter as they cling to her eyelashes, until one trickles over her cheekbone and she wipes it away angrily with her hand and keeps talking.

No, he can't hate her. But that doesn't mean he'll listen to her.

"I'm going to bed, Rachel," he grunts and turns on his heel.

"Kurt!" Rachel cries. "Don't you realise what you're _do_ ing? What _he's_ doing? He's taking ad _van_ tage of you, Kurt! And you're blatantly letting him walk all over your big, kind heart. And you don't deserve to be trodden on, Kurt. I love you, I do, and I can't just stand back and let someone waltz in and screw you over like this! _Even_ if it means denying you the sort of experience that wins Tony Awards."

He shakes his head, keeps his back turned and strides purposefully away.

"He's my friend, Rachel. You don't understand."

"I understand _friendship_ just fine, Kurt Hummel! It's what I'm practicing right now!"

She chases him past the cut offs in his room.

"Rachel, I'm getting ready for bed."

"Oh it's nothing I haven't seen before," she snaps. "You really need to start following my example and sing in the shower more, Kurt. How am I supposed to know when you're naked?"

He doesn't deign to answer, merely starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"Rach, can we please talk about this in the morning? I'm tired."

"Well so am I," she announces shakily. " _I'm_ tired, too, Kurt. Tired of watching you cry your heart out over this boy who has done nothing but manipulate you and hurt you. And _don't_ lie to me," she points a dramatic finger when he opens his mouth to retort. "I've heard you."

"Rachel, you don't understand. Blaine and I have been friends for a while now and he means a lot to me."

"Oh yeah? And how much do you mean to him? About as much you'll give him, I'm sure."

"That's rude," Kurt growls, eyes flashing towards Rachel, jabbing his own in the air towards the girl.

"He _clenched his fists_ at me, Kurt. He is _dangerous!_ Who knows what might happen to you around him?"

"He's had a tough life," Kurt shrugs. "You can't blame him for getting defensive."

"And so have _we,_ Kurt, and you can't blame _me_ for wanting to look out for my best friend!"

He sees her then, more clearly than he has done in a long time.

Behind that glorious, Broadway starshine there still resides a small, friendless girl who talks about her day to her poster of Barbra Streisand because nobody else will listen, and records herself applauding over and over on a loop to play after every bedroom performance, so that she can pretend someone other than her dads appreciates her.

Behind that glorious, Broadway starshine, Kurt realises, is something far _more_ glorious.

Instead of The Performer, it's Rachel Berry: The Friend. And she's spectacular.

"Oh, Rachel," he groans, and even though he'd really like her to not be here while he's undressed down to his undershirt, he opens his arms and lets her rush to him for a tight embrace.

She sniffles and Kurt prays this is at least one of his cheaper undershirts.

( _Cheaper? Do you own anything cheap, Kurt?_ )

The voice in his head sounds suspiciously like Blaine, but he doesn't think too hard about that right now.

"You're my best friend in the whole world, Kurt," Rachel admits sheepishly into his shoulder.

"And you're mine," Kurt smiles gently. "When you're not being insufferable," he adds, and is glad to hear a choking laugh escape her lips. "Still, please don't snot all over my clothes."

"Sorry," Rachel backs away from his arms, awkwardly hunches her shoulders a little closer to her ears. "And you know I didn't mean to…"

"Urgh, I know, Rachel. And I promise I will explain everything to you tomorrow. When's Brody coming over?"

"I'm meeting him for brunch at eleven," Rachel swings her arms bouncily, and Kurt's sure he can see her pupils mutating into tiny love hearts.

"Well we can talk before you go, ok? But for now I really just want to get an early night. I've had a busy day."

Rachel nods and bids him goodnight, and he forgives her again when she apologises as she leaves.

He's in bed, his face well moisturised and the light off by the time she reappears, hair brushed and face cleansed and shuffling very loudly for such a petite girl.

"What do you want?" He keeps his eyes closed and tries not to move the muscles around his mouth too much for fear of distorting the coolant cream that's not quite completely sunk into his skin.

"Once, when I was seven, I got really angry and I yelled at my Two Gay Dads, even though they didn't deserve it. And I felt really bad, so they let me-"

"Get in," he sighs, flicking his duvet corner up in invitation.

She accepts with a squeal and soon buries herself into his side with her arms around his torso.

"You know," she says lightly, trailing an index finger over his collar bone, her voice deep and full of the secretive excitement that Kurt tends to associate with twelve year old girls' slumber parties, where they reveal their secret crushes and have meaningful conversations. Or, well, as meaningful as they come at twelve years of age.

"Rachel, go to sleep or I'll make you play the quiet game."

He can hear the smile in her breathing as she squeezes his sides in reply and nestles herself close to him, and while it's a little discomfiting to feel a pair of breasts pressing so tightly to his side in a bed snuggle, Kurt decides he's grateful for Rachel's clinginess, for once.

He feels cared for, and loved, and it's as the last strands of conscious thought trickle away to make room for dreams he realises that he is.

.

.

Things get better.

Rachel listens surprisingly well, and for the most part remains somewhat quiet while Kurt relates to her his meeting of Blaine and the flowering of their friendship.

And he just has to hope Brody's a good swimmer as he throws Rachel's boyfriend straight into the deep end and admits how they've managed to keep their meetings secret for so long.

She looks subsequently outraged, insulted, and gooey eyed in equal measure; Kurt takes full advantage of the Shakespearean sense of romance so deeply embedded in Rachel's soul that it oozes from her pores, and encourages her fantasy of a twisted Romeo and Juliet, though stresses he'd prefer to avoid the death thing at the end.

And Blaine does come back on Saturday. Rachel's out of the apartment by the time he arrives, and though a little distant and awkward, Rachel _does,_ with as much honesty as she can muster, send him her apologies and regards through Kurt.

And there's nothing stilted or uneasy about their embrace, their laughter, their greetings, when they meet.

Kurt would compare it to riding a bike, only he much prefers Blaine to bikes.

And when Blaine looks curiously at Kurt for abruptly blushing for no apparent reason, Kurt leaps into as many high school anecdotes as he can possibly think of, if only to forget that startling mental image.

"Kurt Hummel, I never took you for a teen boozer," Blaine sniggers, his eyes sparkling over the rim of his coffee cup as Kurt relates the scarring events of the April Rhodes Debacle back in his sophomore year.

"Never again," Kurt shudder. "I stick to cocktails, now, and even then it took Rachel endless bribes of doing household chores the following morning to convince me to even go out at all the first time.

Blaine pulls a face at the word _cocktails,_ and Kurt nearly spits coffee all over them both as he laughs.

_"Don't!"_ he cries, "They're not that bad, you know. The fruity ones are-"

"For wimps," Blaine cuts in with a teasing smirk.

They've downed a bottle and a half of wine each and cracked open a six pack of beer left by Joel last time he came over by the time Kurt thinks maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Blaine's pressing hard between his legs, his fingers dancing over the button of his jeans by the time Kurt _knows_ this wasn't such a good id-

_"Blaine,"_ he groans, even as their lips press together, violent and bruising.

" _Uh-huh_ ," Blaine's breath washes over him hot as cigarette smoke.

"We need to st- _op_ ," Kurt stammers, but his clutching hands make no move to push Blaine away from where his warm weight is pressing against every inch of him.

"I disagree," Blaine smirks against Kurt's lips and their bodies ripple together like waves of the sea, fluid and furious.

"No, we do," Kurt shakes his head weakly, and Blaine lifts his head.

Kurt shakes his head again, stronger this time but afraid, too. Blaine's smile is as warm and happy and cheeky as his dancing eyes.

"You're so special, Kurt," he mumbles between wet lips, hoarse and husky.

"Y-You too," Kurt blushes, and his head tilts down instinctively but Blaine holds his hair in a tight grip.

"I want to be your first, Kurt."

It's not a request, or a plea, or even a demand.

It's just a true statement that runs through Kurt's veins faster and better than their cheap wine and fancy beer.

"Me too," Kurt whispers, and that warm, happy, cheeky smile spreads even wider, leaning down to press against Kurt's pout. "No," Kurt begs, his voice cracking.

Blaine angles his head curiously, frowning his silent question as his lips ghost against Kurt's. They share breaths like love.

"Not like this."

He indicates the empty bottles and the couch and the clock on the wall as it ticks closer and closer to Blaine's departure for a night of faceless strangers who will rub away Kurt's scent from Blaine's skin faster than soapy water.

But he still accepts the chaste kiss when Blaine offers it, and he still whimpers lightly at the release of pressure when Blaine sits up on his knees until all contact is removed.

"It's just sex, Kurt," is all Blaine can reply with sadly as he runs a hand through his tangled hair and the sofa squeaks in protest as he clambers off it.

Kurt stares at the bottles, his head pulsing and he wonders how Blaine can possibly think of going out into the cold _now,_ when his body is heavy with the throb of alcohol and his skin is warm with the flush of light intoxication.

"Can I come back later?"

It's unexpected for so many reasons.

Because why would Kurt ever say yes to Blaine dragging his stench of men and sex and cigarettes and sweat back to his beautiful apartment? Because why would Blaine _want_ to come back, knowing a girl whose trust has so precariously not even really been granted yet will be here?

Because since when has Blaine ever _asked_ for anything before?

The reply is even more unexpected, though.

_"Please."_

.

.

Rachel's in bed fast asleep when _later_ arrives, too drunk on love to question where all their alcohol has gone as she roots through the cupboards for a late night supper before turning in. And with as much tact as she can possibly manage she hints to understanding that Kurt is so quiet due to the melancholic situation his friendship with Blaine has placed him in, and Kurt lets her believe it so long as she doesn't notice the red wine stain on his lips that three rounds with a toothbrush has not managed to eradicate.

Rachel's in bed and Kurt's sat at their biggest window, staring down the street waiting.

_How fucking embarrassing, Juliet._

He doesn't glance at his watch or the clock or his phone or _anything._ Kurt's an expert enough at agitating himself as it is.

So he has no idea what time Blaine saunters up the street at. All he knows is that Blaine is sauntering up the street.

He's opening the main front door as Blaine approaches it, and the boy looks surprised.

"Come with me," Kurt takes Blaine's hand and pulls him inside and up, up, up the stairs, until they're padding through a dark apartment into Kurt's bedspace. "If you don't mind washing in the dark, you're free to take a shower. You won't wake Rachel."

And surprisingly, he realises he cares just as much about Blaine's comfort as he does not wanting to be sat next to a boy covered any number of men's bodily fluids.

Blaine agrees in a daze of confusion. He doesn't really have the energy to shower, not with the night's work _and_ the preceding alcohol, but coming from Kurt's lips the suggestion sounds so much nicer than it normally would.

And though he's not all that excited to have his skin smelling of lilac and lavender, the soap feels nice and a million sins seem to float away down that drain. He feels cleaner than he did the day he was born, _Cleaner._

The towel Kurt's left him seems far to luxurious for one person, and the flannel pyjama pants are too soft and the t-shirt is too nice and Blaine really, really doesn't understand, but he fumbles through the dark both literally and metaphorically, until he's standing in the kitchen, accepting a glass of water from a smiling Kurt, which is gulped down in three, as are the further two glasses refilled for him.

Kurt doesn't question it, doesn't question _anything,_ just announces that there's a spare toothbrush under the sink and as long as the lights stay off Rachel won't wake up and he'll be back in his bedspace when Blaine's finished.

Continue process and repeat.

The toilet paper is softer and the toothpaste is mintier and the water is fresher and Blaine's mind is still mellowing in that last _good boy_ that had been grunted in his ear, even as he sneaks under the bedcovers at Kurt's invite.

Their legs tangle tighter than their clasped fingers, and their noses are nearly touching, and Blaine can't tell if the minty fresh wash of air is his own breath or Kurt's.

There's something so secret about bedcovers and mattresses and pillows. Secretive and intimate; an entire world to share between two people, to encase them in a cocoon of comfort from which all outer worldly fears can be hidden.

"Don't you ever want to stop?" Kurt asks, and Blaine can't quite see his eyes to read what's going on behind those glasz storms that have plagued him for so long.

"Why would I?"

"For something more."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Kurt sighs with a cracking voice. "Like _this?"_ He squeezes his hands as they lie between them interlocking with Blaine's, and Blaine eyes the thicket their fingers have created and wonders at it.

"I _do_ have this," he says frankly, repeats the squeeze.

He can't quite tell, but he thinks maybe Kurt just closed his eyes.

"Did you say your first time was special, Blaine?" Kurt whispers, small and frightened as Blaine bristles under the covers.

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

There's something secret and intimate and _bold_ about bedcovers and mattresses and pillows. They are safety and comfort and courage.

"He left," Blaine speaks softly, shyly. "I _was_ special, but he must have changed his mind."

Kurt's eyes are definitely open, now. He can tell, because they're sparkling in the faint glow of the street from behind the curtains.

"You can be special again, though, Blaine," Kurt insists, and the only thing that's stopping him from gripping tighter is fear of breaking Blaine's fingers.

"It's not the same," Blaine shakes his damp, curly head. " _I'm_ not the same."

"There's more than one person out there for you, Blaine. Just because one guy left, doesn't mean everyone will."

"But they did," Blaine retorts. "Dad, and Cooper, and Mom all the time with her boyfriends, and her _boy_ friends, and-"

"What about Sebastian?" Kurt interrupts. "Did he leave? What about me? I haven't left, have I? You're allowed to love more than one person, Blaine."

He watches emotion flutter butterfly shy across Blaine's features, his eyelashes twitching with blinks and he can feel his breaths fast and shallow in the air between them.

And Kurt thinks maybe he hates this boy who has done this damage, showed Blaine the world only to drop him in the middle of it, alone and frightened with a working body but a broken heart.

_"I really liked him, you know? And he liked me too. We liked each other."_

And in spite of himself Kurt realises he's glad of Sebastian for being Blaine's friend, even if a name is all he has to go on. He's glad that Sebastian never left, and he wonders what sort of boy it was that did leave, and took such a huge piece of Blaine with him at that, dumping both it and Blaine on the sidewalk along the way.

"You'll be ok, Blaine," Kurt promises as the tension melts into sleep.

"I'm always ok," is Blaine's mumbled reply.

They don't speak anymore. They don't need to.

.

.

They wake up as they fell asleep, nose to nose, forehead to forehead, knee to knee, palm to palm. Kurt to Blaine.

Kurt is woken by butterfly kisses, fluttering pockets of air as Blaine blinks and awakens. He opens his eyes and they stare in wonder.

Blaine's eyes are tired, lines of exhaustion wrinkling the muscles in his face and his smile is weak and full of trembling effort.

"Go back to sleep," Kurt orders teasingly, and Blaine has no trouble obeying as he blinks his way back into unconsciousness, faster even than he had blinked himself awake.

Kurt waits until those hot, sleepy breaths have evened out before extracting his limbs and slipping out of bed. He shivers as his feet come into contact with the cold floor, and he wriggles his toes into some thick socks and wraps himself up in a warm jumper.

His mind is on coffee and fruit, and not on the petite brunette lying in wait for him in the kitchen.

Her hands are on her hips and she does not look impressed, particularly not when he smiles brightly at her.

"Good morning," he chirps.

"It is indeed," Rachel huffs. She eyes him suspiciously. "He's still here, isn't he?"

Kurt's shoulders tense as he watches the kettle slowly boil.

"What makes you think that?"

"His clothes are on the bathroom radiator, Kurt!"

Well _damn,_ he was so sure he'd thought of everything.

"Do you really think this is a good idea, Kurt?"

"For the love of GaGa, Rachel, all he did was sleep here!" Kurt groans. "Coffee?"

_"Caffeine,"_ is all Rachel replies with, sniffing and patting her throat protectively.

"Of course," Kurt sighs. "Rachel, we talked about this and you said you were-"

"I _am_ fine with it Kurt, really," Rachel insists, "I just think you're going to give him the wrong idea if you keep on-"

"And what idea is that, Rachel? That he has a friend to go to? A safe place to come to? That he's _welcome?"_

"There's a difference between offering someone a safe haven and offering them a place in your _bed,"_ Rachel frowns thoughtfully. "I'm thinking about _Blaine_ as much as I am _you_ here, Kurt."

Kurt rolls his eyes as he begins cutting up an apple and dropping the segments into a bowl.

"By all means, he can _have_ the sofa if he likes, he can move his own bed into our apartment if that's what you want, just please, _please_ don't start crossing boundaries you can't come back from."

Her words make too much sense for him to really listen.

"And don't use all the fruit," she adds as an afterthought, noticing that the two bowls he has placed on a tray are already half full of fresh fruit. "We're not due to buy more until Tuesday."

Kurt remains silent as he washes his cutlery, picks up his tray, and turns around to face her.

"Thank you for your concern," he says, and she can hear the pleasantries are not leaving his lips willingly. "I understand, and I promise I know what I am doing."

"I really don't think you-"

"Rachel," Kurt snaps in a warning tone, and Rachel presses her hand to her lips to stop them moving. _"Thank you."_

She smiles innocently behind her silencing hand and nods. He rolls his eyes affectionately at her, and lets out a chuckle when she raises her other hand in question.

"Yes?"

"Question," she unzips her mouth tentatively. "When will he be leaving?"

"I have no idea," Kurt says pointedly, and throws her a sharp look. "Will that be a problem?"

"No, no, of course not," Rachel shakes her head profusely. "It's just because Brody is coming over to run dance routines with me for a while later. I didn't want Blaine to be alarmed by more people in the apartment when he wakes up."

Kurt doesn't try to contain his amusement at her innocent affections.

"That's very kind of you, Rachel, but I think Blaine will be fine." With that he returns past the curtain cut offs of his bedroom to see Blaine has wrapped himself deep in the duvet and is snoring lightly into the space between their pillows.

Kurt smiles, placing the tray of fruit and coffee on the table by his bedside and crouching on the bed. He sniggers when Blaine lets out a protesting grunt at the dip and bend of the mattress. Blaine shifts his face deeper into the gap in the pillows and curls his fingers around folds of the duvet.

" _Hmmm-hm-hm – hmm-hmmm-hmm_ ," Kurt hums, getting louder and louder as he gets closer to Blaine, enjoying the way Blaine shifts and wriggles to evade wakefulness. " _It's great, to stay up late, good morning, good morning to you._ "

"What the fuck?" Blaine groans, stretching his limbs and peering up at Kurt with bleary eyes.

"Oh come, everyone loves _Singing in the Rain_ ," Kurt scoffs. "Even the morning-haters."

"Well I _hate_ rain," Blaine snaps back grumpily and throws himself dramatically into the pillows.

"Not _rain,"_ Kurt teases, "The mus…Blaine, please tell me you've seen _Singing in the Rain_."

"Uhh," Blaine stammers warily, eyeing Kurt as a frightened rabbit to a viper when Kurt lets out of tragic gasp of shock.

"You have so much to learn," Kurt admonishes with a playfully patronising grin, clambering into bed and pulling the tray to rest over both their laps.

"And you don't?" Blaine retorts, smirking when Kurt blushes and pushes a mug and bowl towards him.

"Eat your breakfast," is all Kurt replies with haughtily, though he knows Blaine's spotted the glint of humour in his eye.

"Kurt, jeez, you didn't have to-" Blaine splutters, eyeing the splashes of colour as he takes in the apple and orange and strawberry and blueberry mixture that fills his bowl.

"Don't mention it," Kurt grins, reaching over to steal a strawberry quarter from Blaine's bowl.

"Hey, you have your own," Blaine slaps his hand away playfully and returns the favour by snatching an orange segment out of Kurt's bowl and slapping it into his mouth before Kurt can take it back.

They end up eating more fruit out of one another's bowls than their own, dreaming up new and improved ninja tactics with every piece until it descends to a strategy war, the small expanse of mattress between them the plains of no-man's land.

Their coffee goes cold, but that's ok because it gives them a reason to get up forty seven minutes later, when there's nothing but a blur of fruit juice at the bottom of each bowl.

"Come on," Blaine slaps Kurt's backside as he bounces up and down. "Coffee!" he cries, and when Kurt remarks that it looks as if he won't be needing any caffeine if this is what he's like without it Blaine begins zooming around the kitchen like an aeroplane.

Kurt smiles at that. He recalls being seven years old and aeroplaning around the kitchen while his mother tested the batch of cookies they'd been baking.

It's not the first time Blaine's reminded him a child. A perpetual Peter Pan, stuck at boyhood and so far away from that night time prowler than Kurt sometimes wonders if that Blaine is nothing more than a nightmare.

"Did you sneak something into your fruit?" Kurt yells over Blaine's _zoooooooom!_ and laughs when Blaine only shakes his head and picks up the pace, _zoom_ ing a tight circle around Kurt as he waits for the kettle to boil.

They are interrupted when a girl appears from the curtains around her bedroom.

Blaine's feet stutter to a halt and he straightens up, silenced as if reprimanded.

Kurt watches them stare at one another with an apprehension that makes him wonder if this is what it would be like to watch a diva off between Ms Streisand and Ms LuPone.

"Hello."

Kurt's honestly surprised at Blaine's initial move, even if it is a little cold and is not accompanied with some sort of gesture to soften it.

"Let's try this properly, shall we?" Kurt steps in over the thrum of the boiling water behind him. "Blaine, this is Rachel. Rachel, this is Blaine."

"Pleasure to meet you," Rachel's hand snaps out from her side like a stiff mannequin, and Blaine looks rather like he'd prefer to offer his hand to a crocodile, but they shake nonetheless.

In the grand scheme of things it could be so much worse, and Kurt clings to this truth along with what few dregs of sanity he has left.

"Good to, uh, meet you too," Blaine clears his throat mid sentence and Kurt can only hope that Rachel takes it as nerves and not lacking manners.

"I was just going out to pick up some more menthol drops," Rachel announces abruptly. "Want anything?" she doesn't specify Kurt, but her barely-a-glance at Blaine is a bit too telling.

He declines, and she buttons up her coat as she leaves.

The closing of the door chimes in perfect harmony with Blaine's voice.

"She doesn't like me."

"Blaine, she does not…not like you," Kurt frowns momentarily, just to make sure he said it right.

"Oh really?" Blaine huffs, glaring pointedly at the closed door.

"She's just protective of me," Kurt excuses her awkwardly, fiddling uselessly with the mugs.

"And what exactly is she protecting you from?" Blaine asks firmly.

Kurt hopes the hairs on the back of his neck don't catch fire with the force of Blaine's glare which, yes, he can _feel_ thank you very much.

"Just everything," Kurt hums vaguely, handing over Blaine's coffee and turning away before Blaine can force him to catch his eye.

He retreats to the sofa, flinches when Blaine sits down with enough space between them to determine that this is, in fact going to be a talking break.

"Do you have a problem with me, Kurt?" Blaine asks simply, and makes no comment at Kurt's scandalised expression as he finally looks over at Blaine.

"Why would you…Blaine, of _course_ I don't have a, a _problem_ with you!"

"Good," Blaine nods and sips his coffee as if confirming the time or commenting on the weather. "Because this is me. It's all you're ever going to get. Just me."

And why on earth would Kurt have a problem with that?

"I know that, Blaine," Kurt frowns in confusion. "I-"

"So why did you ask me that last night?" Blaine asks abruptly. So abruptly, in fact, it's as if he's only just remembering.

"Ask you what?"

"If I ever wanted to stop doing what I do."

"I – I don't know," Kurt shakes his head, "You looked _exhausted,_ and I just wondered if you'd ever wanted anything more."

"Like a big apartment and nice clothes?"

Kurt shuffles uncomfortably in his big apartment and nice clothes.

"It's not impossible, Blaine," he shrugs.

"Not for little boys and girls with rich daddies to buy them things, maybe," Blaine grunts under his breath and gulps his scalding black coffee. The bitterness running down his throat tastes vaguely appropriate.

"Exc _use_ me?" Kurt cries. _"Rich daddies?_ I don't know what planet you think I'm from, Blaine, or what planet _you're_ from, maybe, but my _daddy_ is not rich!" he spits.

Blaine looks taken aback by the waspish sting in Kurt's voice, his coffee cup trembles in his tight grip.

"I am _not_ some toffee nosed brat living on undeserved benefits and five generations' worth of family fortune, _Blaine._ My father is a _mechanic,_ he owns a _garage,_ which is a damn sight more impressive than what his own father achieved. I worked in that garage for years, and yeah, I much prefer designing clothes to fixing engines, but I _did it_. For myself and my father and my family.

"My _mother_ came from French and German immigrants who moved to the US after the war. It nearly cost them _everything_ to send her to college, but they worked to give her a good education. Do you know how much they were investing in their daughter succeeding?

"When my mother died my father kept us afloat, even with just one income while grieving for his wife _and_ raising, let's face it, _not_ the easiest child in the world."

He rolls his eyes at himself and shakes his head, but the hard stare remains as he realises he's standing, and he's not sure how that happened. Standing and looking down on Blaine who has remained deep in his seat.

"Don't you _dare_ sit there in pauper self righteousness and tell me I'm a trust fund baby, Blaine. Don't you _dare."_

Kurt retakes his seat sheepishly, glad he'd remembered to put his mug on the coffee table so as not to have a spillage to clear up

He's not sure where that anger came from. Perhaps it's that he's never particularly enjoyed being belittled, but there's something so much worse about _Blaine_ thinking that of him than of anyone else thinking it.

Whatever the case may have been, it seems that even if he did before, Blaine doesn't think that of him anymore. His eyes are wide and his collar bones seem to bow and bend as he shrinks backs a little, justly reprimanded.

Kurt wants to apologise for the outburst, but he's forgotten how, breathless as the excitement flutters slowly to a calm in his chest, his heart a hummingbird rattling between his lungs.

Without warning Blaine's wrapped a hand around one of Kurt's; his thumb toys softly with Kurt's fingers.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, quiet and shy.

There's that little boy again, Kurt realises. Meek and small and so fucking _young._

"Me too," Kurt chokes out. "I, uh, I'm not sure where that came from."

"I shouldn't have…" Blaine reconsiders his statement as his eyes search Kurt's face for forgiveness. "I hate it when people make assumptions about me."

It'll do, he realises when Kurt breathes out sharply through his nose and grins.

"Singing in the Rain?" is all Kurt asks.

There's a desperation in his eyes, a forcefulness to _just move on swiftly_ that Blaine is more than happy to concede to.

He nods, unsure what he's setting himself up for.

Kurt pats his leg and moves to slide the dvd in where it lies in its proper place – always within reach of the television.

Maybe he's a coward for avoiding this marvellous opportunity to really talk to Blaine, to talk without the safety net of alcohol or darkness or duvets. Maybe he's a coward, but as he watches Blaine escape his gaze in favour of staring at the tv screen even before the menu can come up, he realises that Blaine is, too.

A companion in cowardice is a comforting thing, Kurt silently acknowledges as he informs Blaine in a whisper that Fred Astaire might have had the charm, but Gene Kelly will always be his hero.

And when Blaine simply looks confused by this, he sniggers and snuggles and tells him it doesn't matter. He'll learn.

_They'll_ learn.


End file.
